


She Made Me Divine Amends

by ardenjames



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th century trans people!, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Gender Identity, Internalized Homophobia, Rule 63, Slow Burn, Suffragette AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:29:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardenjames/pseuds/ardenjames
Summary: Grantaire is sent to a boarding school where she falls in with a revolutionary group of women, led by Enjolras, a girl who makes Emmeline Pankhurst look tame by comparison. Now, Grantaire just has to figure out if these feelings for Enjolras are those of platonic admiration, or something more.(Also known as: boarding school lesbians).





	She Made Me Divine Amends

**Author's Note:**

> -title is from Tennyson’s Maud.  
> -the story is loosely based on the Gemma Doyle Trilogy by Libba Bray, which was the book series which 100% made me a lesbian, and I highly recommend it to everyone!

As the carriage took them from the gritty streets of London into the crisp, autumn foliage of the countryside, Grantaire felt as if she could cry. It was not that she didn’t appreciate the beautiful trees around her, or the slow rocking of the carriage along the road, it was the destination that caused her grief. Well, grief was not the right word. Grantaire was well acquainted with grief, and this was more of an annoyance or discomfort.

Across the carriage from her, Grantaire’s brother Alphonse sighed deeply. “Adelaide, you mustn’t make those faces. At Prentiss, they will expect young ladies such as you to present themselves with grace and charm. No one wants a wife whose face is stuck in that ghastly frown.”

Just to spite him, Grantaire frowned deeper.

“Really, I don’t see why you’re so upset. Prentiss is a wonderful school, and you’ll be getting one of the best educations in England. It’ll be a marked improvement over whatever training you received in Calcutta.” Alphonse sighed again. It seemed, from what Grantaire had observed, that Alphonse spent the majority of his life sighing at the state of things. “Truly, I’m amazed Father allowed you and Mother to spend so much time there. Were it up to my control, you would have attended Prentiss from your thirteenth birthday, rather than beginning so late. But Father was always wont to give Mother the benefit of the doubt, something which I assume he regrets now—“

“Don’t speak of Mother that way,” Grantaire interrupted, unable to take any more of Alphonse’s patrimonial comments. “None of this was her fault. You can’t blame her for what illnesses exist in the world!”

“Adelaide,” Alphonse said, pity in his eyes, “I understand her death has greatly impacted you, but it is clear that living in Calcutta was not the best decision for either of you—“

“You act as if you know more about my life and hers, but you don’t! And _don’t_ call me Adelaide,” Grantaire pressed on, ignoring the roll of Alphonse’s eyes. “You _know_ I don’t appreciate that name, and prefer Grantaire.”

“You continue to astound me, Adelaide,” Alphonse continued as if he hadn’t heard Grantaire. “It’s unbecoming of a young woman such as yourself to use her surname, as if she is a sailor or a soldier. I expect the women of Prentiss would rather not refer to you as de Grantaire.”

“I’ve told you time and again, brother dear,” Grantaire said with her smarmiest smile, “to call me Grantaire. Not _de_ Grantaire, we’re not even royalty. It doesn’t make sense to use the French pronunciation when no one in our family speaks a lick of French anymore.”

Alphonse chose to ignore that, instead brushing an imaginary piece of lint off of his coat. “I truly hope Prentiss can instill some manners in you; it’s a good, Christian school, and hopefully I won’t feel ashamed to be seen in London with you after a year there.”

“I’ll always be ashamed to be seen with you,” Grantaire snapped back.

Alphonse just sighed again, and Grantaire gave up on trying to have a civil conversation with him. Coming back to the dreary world of London after six years in the warm, bustling heat of Calcutta, Grantaire figured her only saving grace was that she did not have to spend all of her time with the most insufferable brother on earth. The carriage ride had been enough, and Grantaire was glad to be rid of him. Even if it meant attending a stuffy boarding school filled with snobby women from London society.

As the carriage pulled up in front of a foreboding castle, Grantaire felt her stomach jump. She wasn’t _scared_ of the school; that would be ridiculous. But she could be nervous. Maybe.

The footman opened the door for her, and Grantaire stepped down, noticing a bouncy middle-aged woman bustling down the front steps.

“Ah, you must be Mademoiselle de Grantaire!” She said, her southern accent strong. “I’m Madame Mabeuf, the housekeeper, and I wanted to welcome you to Prentiss School for Young Ladies.”

Grantaire appreciated the kind smile and gave a curtsey. “I’m very glad to be here,” she replied, the lie sliding easily across her tongue. When she turned around, Alphonse was already back in the carriage and pulling away from the school. He hadn’t even deigned to give her a hug goodbye. Good riddance.

Grantaire took a deep breath and let Madame Mabeuf lead her into the front hall, dark and foreboding.

“Since you’ve arrived in the middle of the school year, we’ve set you up in the only other space available with Mademoiselle Feuilly, who is one of our scholarship candidates,” Mabeuf said, leading her up the stairs. “She’s lovely, I’m sure you’ll become fast friends.

They approached an unassuming door at the end of the hallway, and Grantaire heard a beautiful voice singing from inside. Mabeuf nodded and opened the door, mentioning that her luggage would be brought up later in the evening, and that dinner started promptly at six before curtsying and walking down the hall.

Grantaire was barely listening, focused on a girl standing in the room in front of her. She had long, red hair which tumbled down her back and was startled out of her singing by Grantaire’s entrance.

“What language was that?” Grantaire asked, taking in the small room and simple furnishings.

The girl blushed. “Polish, sorry. The lullabies remind me of home—“

“No, no,” Grantaire interrupted, “it was beautiful.”

“Oh, where are my manners. I’m Alexandra Feuilly,” she continued, “but I usually go by Feuilly. Most of the girls here go by our surnames rather than our given names, both for ease of reference and because too many of us are named Marie.”

Grantaire chuckled, feeling like her heart might burst. Maybe this place won’t be as terrible as she assumed, if all the girls are like Feuilly. “Then I’m Grantaire, just Grantaire.”

Feuilly nodded and motioned to one of the beds. “This one is yours, I hope that’s alright? Also,” she coughed awkwardly, “may I ask where you’re from? Only, your accent is interesting; I always thought I had a good ear for accents, but I can’t place yours.”

“It’s no problem,” Grantaire replied, falling back onto the bed and shrugging out of her uncomfortable travelling coat. “I was raised in Calcutta, and spoke Hindi with my mother growing up. She was Indian herself, and wanted to raise me with the local traditions rather than just as a British citizen in the colonies.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit India!” Feuilly smiled, sitting down next to Grantaire. “Do you miss it terribly? I can’t imagine England is anything to compare.”

Grantaire thought back to their house in Calcutta, the fresh air and bright sun lighting up the gardens, the airiness of their rooms, and how everything seemed much more peaceful than the bustle and grit of London. She hadn’t realized it until she had left, but Calcutta had been a little piece of paradise. But now there was another side of Calcutta she hadn’t known; it was the city where her mother had endured months of bed rest and illness, sweating through her linens and crying out at night. It was the city where Grantaire had to say goodbye to the woman who loved her more than anything else in the world.

Grantaire was pulled out of her reverie by a hand on hers, and noticed Feuilly next to her with a concerned look on her face.

“I’m sorry, but are you alright?” Feuilly asked, concerned, “is it something I said?”

“No,” Grantaire sniffed, wiping a stray tear from her eye. It wouldn’t do to frighten off her first possible friend because of memories she couldn’t change. “My apologies. I loved Calcutta dearly, but my mother passed away this year, which is why I’m here and not back where I’d rather be.”

“Of course, I’m sorry to bring it up.”

Grantaire laughed, although it was slightly watery. “No, I have to speak about it at some point. I’m already going to be the mysterious new student with dark skin who shows up halfway through the year, wouldn’t want to add to the aura.” She grasped Feuilly’s hand in hers a bit tighter. “Speaking of, what are the other girls like?”

Feuilly smiled. “They’re lovely. I think there are ten or so girls in our class? All of them are absolute dears, but there are a few girls who I think are rather…intense.” She coughed slightly. “One might be inclined to call them frightening.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Girls can’t be frightening, Feuilly. That’s absurd.”

 

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At dinner that evening, Grantaire was proved wrong. As she stepped into the great hall with Feuilly, she immediately realized which girls Feuilly had called terrifying. Sitting at the center of a long table sat three beautiful girls, laughing and arguing amongst themselves, with space between them and any other girls in the room as if they were on an island. There was a brunette with shining eyes and beautiful curves, a dark-haired girl with olive skin and a set of reading glasses, and an effortless blonde who looked like a china doll, watching her two friends intently. Grantaire thought they made a terrifying trio, but they gave off an ethereal feeling. It was as if the three Furies or the Moirai had descended from Olympus to mingle amongst the common people.

Rather than walking towards them, though, Feuilly led Grantaire over to the second table, where two cheerful girls sat, immediately making room for the two of them. Their smiles were soft and welcoming, the opposite of the energies the Furies seemed to be giving off.

“Joly is the daughter of the Duke of Weymouth,” Feuilly whispered in Grantaire’s ear, pointing to the shorter girl with curling hair falling around her shoulders. “Bossuet is the daughter of that lawyer Disraeli is so fond of, L’Aigle, but she prefers Bossuet.”

“Wonderful to meet you,” Grantaire said, “I’m Grantaire.”

Introductions continued, but Grantaire was sad to say she doesn’t focus on Bossuet’s favorite courses, or how much Joly thought Grantaire would like their music professor. Instead, her attention was drawn back to the porcelain doll across the room. For a brief moment, the girl caught her eyes, and her startlingly bright blue eyes met Grantaire’s dark ones. Coming to England, Grantaire was used to all sorts of looks because of her odd appearance, but this look wasn’t mean, it was curious.

The girl didn’t speak, and only offered a glance or two over the course of dinner. Grantaire was glad to know that Joly and Bossuet were lovely girls, and that she had a friend in Feuilly, but that did not assuage her conscience that could not stop thinking about the Furies and their leader.

That night, Grantaire dreamed of goddesses in Grecian robes and blonde hair.

 

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The movement and routine of Prentiss began for Grantaire the next morning, as her courses commenced with Feuilly and the other girls in her grade. French to begin, followed by music, history and art. The French professor, Monsieur Le Gros, was a terrifying and horrible old man, and Grantaire hated him on sight. As she walked into the classroom, slightly late due to a mishap with her stockings, Le Gros set his beady eyes on her.

“ _Qui etez-vous?_ ” he asked, and Grantaire’s heart flew to her throat. Of course, in an upper-level French class, one would be expected to know French.

Grantaire did not. “Uh, _Je_ , er, _Je suis—“_

“Bah,” Le Gros said with a wave of his hand, pointing to a seat in the middle of the class. “ _Assis-la.”_

Grantaire nodded, feeling her face turn red. The thumping of her heart got even quicker as she noticed who sat next to the empty seat: the porcelain girl from the night before. The girl gave Grantaire a dismissive glance, returning to an immaculate set of notes in front of her.

“I would expect more from the daughter of _Monsieur de Grantaire_ ,” Le Gros said in heavily accented English.

“Actually,” Grantaire interrupted, “I prefer Miss Grantaire, if you please—“

“ _S’il vous plait, mademoiselle, s’il vous_ plait.”

Rather than continue to interrogate her, Le Gros began with the lesson, and Grantaire felt faint. How was she to learn an entirely new language within one year of schooling? She turned to her other side, and noticed Joly, who gave her a cheerful wave. “ _Sorry”_ she mouthed, frowning at Grantaire in sympathy. Grantaire shrugged her shoulders and attempted to pay attention to the words Le Gros was writing on the chalkboard.

“ _Attentionez, parlez avec la fille à côté de vous,”_ Le Gros began, and Grantaire looked back to Joly with a wide look in her eyes.

“Speak with the girl next to you,” Joly translated, whispering to Grantaire under her breath.

_“Et parlez de la symphonie numéro 40 de Mozart,”_

“Speak about Mozart’s symphony number forty,”

_“En utilisant le subjonctif.”_

“And use the subjunctive tense.”

Grantaire sighed. At least she could speak with Joly, rather than the angel on her other side. It seemed as if fate was working against her, as Le Gros walked by and tutted at the two of them.

“ _Mademoiselle Joly avec Mademoiselle L’Aigle, s’il vous plait._ ” He turned to Grantaire, frowning once more. Grantaire wondered if his face was stuck like that. “ _Mademoiselle_ de _Grantaire avec Mademoiselle Enjolras. Pour l’assistance.”_

Grantaire bit her lip and turned from Joly towards the girl she now knew was called Enjolras.

“Uh,” she began, “ _bonjour?_ ” she gave a hopeful smile. Maybe this Enjolras would be kind like Joly and understand Grantaire’s struggles.

Of course, Grantaire could not be that lucky.

_“Écoute moi,”_ she began, her French accent as good as Le Gros, “ _Je n'ai pas besoin de pratiquer le français avec un imbécile comme vous. Je parle couramment le français, et ce n'est pas mon problème que vous semblez être incapable d'enchaîner les phrases les plus simples dans cette langue, alors je vous supplie de me laisser en paix._ ” With a huff, she opened a book on her desk and began to read ardently, turning away from Grantaire.

Grantaire sat in shock. Not only could this girl speak near-perfect French, but also she spoke with the confidence and arrogance that Grantaire assumed was unique to men. Rather than being afraid, Grantaire was in awe. In awe, and slightly annoyed that she would be unable to learn any French at this rate. Grantaire began to doodle on an empty page of her notebook, resigned to spend the rest of the class in silence. She glanced at the book Enjolras was reading, and it looked to be in French, which Grantaire thought made sense.

Grantaire doodled lilies and tulips in the corner of her notebook, glancing at Enjolras every once in a while. The minute Le Gros dismissed them, Enjolras stood up and strode out of the classroom with intent. Grantaire watched as the girl from the night before with the reading glasses followed her out of the room, sighing.

As she packed up her own things and made to follow Joly out to music, Le Gros stopped her with a stern look.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” he began, before switching to his heavily accented English. “I must say, I’m disappointed in your progress thus far. A young lady like you cannot be expected to succeed in this course without strict application and study. If your French does not improve over the course of the term, I will be forced to demote you to one of the lower grades.”

“I understand,” Grantaire said, frowning at the thought of studying with ten year olds.

“I recommend you reach out to one of the other ladies in the class; I know Josephine’s French is above standard, you would do well to study with her in your free period.”

Grantaire restrained herself from a huff of annoyance. “Of course, Monsieur. Thank you for the advice.”

With a nod, Le Gros dismissed her, and Grantaire rushed out into the hallway hoping whichever music professor wouldn’t forgive her for being a few minutes late. As she turned the corner, she barreled into Feuilly, who was waiting with a concerned look on her face.

“Is everything alright?” She asked, grasping Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire gave a nervous laugh. “It is alright as I expected, entering an upper level French course with no knowledge of the language. Le Gros wants me to study with a girl in the course, although I don’t know anyone named Josephine.”

Feuilly’s mouth fell open. “He wants you to study with _Enjolras_?”

“Enjolras’ first name is Josephine?” Grantaire asked, eyes wide. Feuilly nodded. “Well, the day just gets better. The girl who despises me now must teach me the entirety of the French language so I don’t fail out of this dreaded school.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Feuilly mused, “maybe she won’t be as…intense in an academic setting.”

“Feuilly, my dear,” Grantaire cautioned as they walked into the music classroom, “I fear the opposite.”

Music passed without incident. Grantaire, as an accomplished piano player thanks to lessons from her mother, caught the eye of Madame Lewis who simply smiled at her as she played a simple melody. As the professor went to deal with Bossuet, who seemed to have caught her hair in a flute, Grantaire let her mind wander.

Her thoughts, of course, drifted back to Enjolras. _Josephine_ Enjolras, her mind corrected, sounding out the syllables together. Grantaire imagined her name would sound at home in the salons of Paris, with fashionable French women commenting on what _Josephine_ was wearing today, or what _Josephine_ ’s thoughts were on Cassatt’s latest works. The image Grantaire was painting of Enjolras in her mind was an enticing and charismatic figure, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if she was jealous of the ease with which Enjolras seemed to carry herself, or if she aspired to be like her. Either way, Grantaire’s eyes began to wander across the classroom to where Enjolras was engrossed in a conversation with the girls from last night, a mandolin between them that none of them were playing. When the short brunette caught Grantaire’s stare, she blushed and ducked her head back to the piano, her finger slipping into a flat note before correcting itself.

It didn’t mean anything, these feelings towards Enjolras. She was simply an intriguing figure.

After music, there was history. History was…odd, to say the least. Grantaire had assumed they wouldn’t be doing any academic subjects at a boarding school such as Prentiss; schools like this were meant for providing a lady with accomplishments with which she could better entertain a husband and his friends. She was not there to learn about Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Apparently at Prentiss, however, Monsieur Myriel was to teach them about the Ages of Mankind, and Grantaire was shocked to see her classmates enthralled. Feuilly was furiously scribbling notes, Bossuet nodded along with everything Myriel said, and Enjolras sat at the front of the class paying rapt attention.

In fact, Enjolras even raised a hand once or twice to comment on Myriel’s lectures, much to Grantaire’s astonishment. Although, Grantaire should not have been surprised at all. She thought Enjolras might be the kind of girl men always commented on, saying she blurred the line between accomplished and threatening. And yet, Enjolras’ beauty would certainly make her the most interesting girl at any social event; Grantaire, with her dark complexion and curly hair, would not hold a candle to the girl who could double for Aphrodite.

Art followed, and Grantaire could tell that this would be her favorite course. For one, the art professor Mademoiselle Fantine couldn’t be older than twenty-five, and had stunning golden hair which fell down to her waist. Her long, blue dress touched her ankles, and Grantaire noticed she wasn’t wearing shoes.

“Fantine has been a breath of fresh air in Prentiss,” Feuilly whispered as they took their seats. “She lets us work on whatever we want; she even offered to work on sculpture with me!” The stars in Feuilly’s eyes seemed to be mirrored in the girls across the classroom, aside from Enjolras, who pulled out her French book again and began to read in the back.

Fantine didn’t seem to mind, welcoming Grantaire with a graceful smile.

“And what art are you most interested in?”

“Uh,” Grantaire began, blushing. She didn’t know how much was acceptable for a girl to know about art. “I mean, I think the works of Artemisia Gentileschi are beautiful? Her work with shadow and light was so expressive and dramatic, and yet she’s overlooked for her male contemporaries, none of whom painted with the same flair, I would argue.”

Fantine’s face broke out into a smile. “I see we have a true connoisseur of the arts in our midst. Well, Mademoiselle Grantaire, I am eager to hear your thoughts as we continue the term.” She turned back to the rest of the class, leaving Grantaire with the feeling that she had been blessed. “Now, I thought I would read aloud some of Tennyson’s works while we painted this afternoon. Feel free to continue whatever work you were doing, or,” Fantine nodded at the back of the classroom “as Mademoiselle Enjolras is demonstrating, enrich your mind in any way you wish. This is your time.”

With that, Fantine took her seat at the front of the classroom and pulled out a thin volume of poetry. Grantaire made her way to an empty easel mythology still on her mind, and she listened as Fantine’s soft voice carried over the room.

_“Come into the garden, Maud / For the black bat, night, has flown, / Come into the garden, Maud / I am here at the gate alone; / And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad / And the musk of the rose is blown_.”

Grantaire knew she could not paint a goddess; that would be too easy. Instead, her mind drifted as the poetry washed over her, and she found herself swirling greens and golds across the canvas. Unlike her other classes, where half of her attention had been on Enjolras and half devoted to the work, Grantaire found that she completely forgot Enjolras existed as she painted. The curves of gold turned into fruit, and the green into a forest, and by the time Fantine stopped reading, Grantaire had a canvas full of color and nature.

“Oh my dear,” Fantine exhaled, walking by. “This is beautiful. Is it—?”

“I was thinking of Atalanta,” Grantaire confessed. “I mean, there are similarities between her story and Maud’s, right?”

“Atalanta?” Joly piped up, stepping away from her canvas, which had a fairly adept still life on it.

“She was,” Grantaire began, looking to Fantine for encouragement. “Um, the myth says Atalanta was a gifted huntress and a suitor wanted to marry her, but she said she would only marry him if he could beat her in a race. But the suitor prayed to Aphrodite, who gave him three golden apples to distract Atalanta so he could win the race and marry her. It just reminded me of—“

“The powerlessness of Maud,” Enjolras said suddenly, causing Grantaire to whip her head around. “The story is about her, but it is mostly about the men around her. She doesn’t have a choice, the world is built without her consent.”

Grantaire nods, eyes still wide. “Exactly.” There was a beat of silence, and Grantaire held Enjolras’ eye contact until Fantine clapped her hands together.

“Well, this is absolutely stunning, Mademoiselle Grantaire. I must say, I will be excited to see what you produce in the future. Unfortunately our time is over, but I will see you all back here tomorrow!”

 

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That evening at dinner, Grantaire still felt Enjolras’ eyes on her, even though she was focused on Joly describing the horrors of Assembly Day, when all the families came to visit for one weekend. This interrupted Grantaire’s thoughts, and she realized how annoying it would be to see Alphonse again so soon.

“Are you sure the family has to attend?” She asked, grimacing slightly.

“Of course!” Bossuet said, smiling, “it’s a wonderful day; last year I met Joly’s parents, and her mother was an absolute _dear_ , giving us all sorts of fashion advice and—“

Joly elbowed Bossuet in the stomach, and Grantaire felt her face grow red. Word must have gotten out about Grantaire’s family history; in a school filled with young women, it was no wonder gossip filled their days. “No, it’s fine. Honestly, it’s not about that. I just dread having to spend even an hour with my uptight brother, who will only comment on how unladylike I am and how I’ll never win a husband this way.” She smiled at Bossuet, swallowing down the small lump in her throat. “Truly, I can’t begrudge you for having a mother.”

Next to her, Feuilly rested her head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, Grantaire, I too dread Assembly Day. Although, it is nice to avoid classes on Friday. I usually end up walking around the grounds, although it might be too cold this year.”

Grantaire grabbed Feuilly’s hand. “You can come with me, if you wish? Having you there will make my meeting with Alphonse much less painful I can assure you. We can pretend you’re a duchess or a Polish princess! He could never tell the difference.”

Feuilly laughed, her eyes lighting up, and the four girls spent the rest of dinner coming up with Feuilly’s new royal persona with which they could trick Grantaire’s brother. Grantaire laughed along, and she was glad to have friends who could make the thought of seeing her family slightly more bearable.

At one point, the laughter died down, and Grantaire watched as Joly and Bossuet’s eyes drifted to a point above her head. Grantaire turned around, and was faced with a disgruntled Enjolras, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Uh, Grantaire,” she asked, surprisingly hesitant for what Grantaire had heard of Enjolras so far. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras turned on her heel and walked towards the back corner of the great hall. Shrugging quickly at Joly, Bossuet and Feuilly, Grantaire followed her. It was only when they were distanced from the rest of the students that Grantaire realized that Enjolras was taller than her. Quiet a bit taller, in fact. As in, Grantaire had to lift her neck to make eye contact. From this angle, her hair looked even more like a halo.

“You had a question?” She asked, slightly distracted by the figure in front of her.

“Le Gros asked me to reach out to you,” she began, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else on earth. “He said he spoke to you about studying French together?”

“Yes, I remember he brought that up. But I understand if—“

“Would you be able to meet tomorrow during our free period? I thought the library on the second floor would prove useful.”

“Oh,” Grantaire coughed, slightly flummoxed. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to teach me, considering our, er, disagreement earlier today.”

“Of course not. And I apologize for my temper this morning; that was uncalled for. If you would like to learn, I would be happy to assist.”

“Then I am happy to accept,” Grantaire said, cordial to a fault. No point trying to stir up a fight now. Enjolras would learn soon enough that teaching Grantaire was useless, and it would take only one session before she gave up completely. “Tomorrow?”

Enjolras smiled. “Tomorrow.”

Grantaire decided that Enjolras had a smile that could rival Helen of Troy.

 

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The next morning, Grantaire found Feuilly at breakfast with Joly, Bossuet, and two young unnamed girls Grantaire thought were in the class below them. One of them had long, dark hair braided on top of her head, and the other wore her auburn hair loose around her face, making her look years younger than Grantaire thought she was.

“Grantaire!” Joly called out, patting the empty seat next to her. “I want to introduce you to Prouvaire and Cosette. Yesterday you didn’t get to meet them, but I would be sorry if you went another day without their company!”

Grantaire grinned and waved at the two girls. “Lovely to meet you. Cosette,” she guessed, looking at the dark-haired girl. “I love your hair, it’s beautiful.”

Cosette blushed, and Grantaire cheered internally. “Thank you, it’s wonderful to meet you as well.”

“Wait, you don’t use your last name?” Grantaire asked, taking a sip of tea.

“No, unfortunately that isn’t an option for me. I don’t know my parents, like Feuilly, but my adopted father gave me a last name that isn’t really mine, if that makes sense? I would much rather be known by the name my mother gave me, rather than Miss Fauchelevent, the scholarship student.” She gave Grantaire a smile, and laid an arm on Joly beside her. “These lovely ladies have forgiven me for not going along with their sacred tradition, and I’m grateful for that.”

“Cosette suits you well,” Grantaire said, grinning. With Cosette and Prouvaire beside them, Grantaire felt as if she was truly part of a group of friends. When she started to think about the upcoming day, however, her good feeling began to dissipate.

“Grantaire, is everything alright?” Prouvaire asked, her voice soft but sure.

“No,” Grantaire sighed. “I just realized I have a study invitation today I’m not looking forward to.”

“Is this about French?” Bossuet asked, smiling slightly.

“How did you know? Did Enjolras’ voice carry across the classroom yesterday?”

Joly laughed. “You mustn’t be too harsh on her. I’m sure she means well.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, frowning into her porridge. “It will all be fine, and we will be the best of friends at the end of the hour.”

By the time they reached their free period, however, Grantaire wasn’t so sure. During French, Le Gros hadn’t made her speak, but Enjolras had also completely ignored her. Had she decided that working with Grantaire was too much effort, and she would do best to give up at the start? It was probably for the best, as this way Grantaire wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable disappointment of making Enjolras frown again.

As she was walking out towards the entrance, deciding a walk outdoors would be better than moping in her room, she ran into Enjolras who walked with the purpose of a general leading his army into war.

“Grantaire, there you are. Would you like to begin? I know a spot in the library which will work well.”

“Oh, I thought you wouldn’t want to work today.”

Enjolras looked confused. “What gave you that impression? I’d like to figure out where you are in your studies, and then we can see how much work needs to be done until Le Gros is confident in your skills.”

Grantaire snorted, but followed her back up the stairs into the library. Although Prentiss didn’t encourage it’s ladies to spend ample time reading, the library was beautiful, to Grantaire’s surprise. Each wall was covered in books, and there were desks and armchairs scattered around the room, with the daylight dimmed by curtains, giving the air a sense of mystery.

Enjolras led her to a set of chairs in the corner and began to lay out a notebook and two books, one being the book Enjolras had been reading in class. Grantaire caught the title, something called _Contrat Social entre l”Homme et la Femme_ by Olympe des Gouges, which Grantaire vaguely remembered hearing about from her mother. Why Enjolras was reading political theory, she did not understand.

“So,” Enjolras began, giving Grantaire a patient look. “Where should we begin? I think the subjunctive might be the most useful, and we can move onto the pluperfect tense if you think that would be more useful? Although, I would argue the pluperfect isn’t as important for a course like ours, and it is much more—“

“Apologies, Enjolras, but you are definitely overestimating my knowledge of French.”

“Well, what would you like to begin with?”

Grantaire laughed. “Um, introductions? ‘Good evening, my name is Grantaire,’ ‘how are you,’ that kind of stuff?”

“Really?” Enjolras asked, incredulous. “How can it be that any highborn woman your age doesn’t know more than three words of French? Were you raised in a barn?”

“Actually, I was raised in India,” Grantaire snapped, watching as Enjolras’ eyes went wide and her mouth shut quickly.

She sat straight up, eyes wide with curiosity rather than anger. “Really? What was it like? Did you spend all of your childhood there, or just the early years? How did you come to Prentiss?”

Of course Enjolras would be interested in this. Grantaire’s punishment for trying to be witty was an Enjolras who found her exciting and different, rather than an Enjolras who was simply tired of Grantaire’s antics.

“Actually,” she muttered, turning to the books in front of them. “I’d rather not discuss it. I’m here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Oh.”

“Can we start with some vocabulary?”

Enjolras nodded, opening the notebook to a blank page. “Of course. My apologies, I did not mean to be invasive. We can begin with some vocabulary about food, if you’d like?”

Grantaire nodded. “It wasn’t invasive,” she said cautiously, watching Enjolras’ perfect penmanship. “I just…I’m not comfortable discussing it. It was not your doing.”

Enjolras looked at her, blue eyes kind. “I still apologize. We’re here to study, not to discuss your personal life. If you’d like to begin?”

They study in silence for a few minutes, with Enjolras writing down simple words like _pomme_ and _courgette_ down with their English equivalent, and Grantaire felt bad. Enjolras _was_ doing her a favor, and Grantaire had refused to speak of anything but French. Perhaps Enjolras would be less likely to quit these lessons if Grantaire made an effort to be sociable.

“Um, do you enjoy travelling?” She asked, interrupting Enjolras’ hand writing out _fraise_.

“Yes, I do,” Enjolras said quietly, looking down at the paper. “I want to see the world, someday, but I’ve only ever been to France.”

“Is that why you speak French so well?” Grantaire _knew_ she was imagining the blush on Enjolras’ cheeks when she answered.

“My mother is from Paris, I’ve been fluent since I was a child.” She finally looked up, resting her chin on her hand. “Do you speak any other languages?”

“Uh, a bit of Hindi, but not that much.”

“That’s… I’m rather impressed. I must say, I wish we could focus on languages aside from French at this school. A language like Hindi sounds much more interesting than Latin cognates.” Enjolras even smiled at Grantaire. It was truly a day of firsts.

They returned to the lesson at hand, but Grantaire felt as if something had shifted between them. Enjolras wasn’t offering to share secrets and become best friends, but she didn’t seem to despise her anymore.

“Um, your book,” Grantaire interrupted, “is that in French as well?”

Enjolras picked up the _Contrat Social_. “Yes,” she said, “it’s one of my favorites. Have you read any political theory?”

Grantaire laughed a bit. “No, I can’t say that I have. My mother was progressive, but even she couldn’t make me read. Were I to be seen reading a book like that, I assume she would have been shocked.”

“Was?”

Grantaire just shook her head, looking at her lap. She was not going to discuss her dead mother with a girl she barely knew.

After a beat, Enjolras continued as if Grantaire hadn’t created an awkward pause. “Well, if we get your French up to par, I’d be happy to let you borrow this copy. While I don’t agree with all of Olympe de Gouges’ opinions, she makes some good points in regards to marriage based on gender equality. It was a truly revolutionary idea for her time, and I think it could make some traction in our day as well.”

“You care about politics, do you?” Grantaire asked, flipping through the pages. She couldn’t understand any of the French, but something felt intimate about holding the copy of Enjolras’ favorite book.

“Of course,” Enjolras said, eyes bright. “As women, I think we have a duty to care about the political decisions which, in many ways, can impact us more than men. After all, how much do men understand about running a household?” Her voice grew more passionate, and she turned to face Grantaire head on. “Taxes on meat and flour would impact a woman more than her husband, yet men do not see us as having a mind for politics.”

“I don’t think anyone could listen to you and think that,” Grantaire said, blushing as soon as the words were out of her mouth. This was too much, and Enjolras would surely be shocked by her behavior.

Instead, Enjolras blushed deeply. “Thank you,” she said softly. After a beat, she looked away from Grantaire and back to the French in front of them. “Shall we continue with the lesson? I think we should focus on the conjugation of _avoir_ next.”

After an hour had passed, Enjolras closed the notebook. “Would you like to meet again tomorrow to continue? I think we can make progress quickly, if we continue in this fashion.”

Grantaire nodded, smiling. “I would appreciate it.” They packed up their books and made the walk to history, and Enjolras even offered Grantaire a smile when they reach the classroom before taking her place in the front of the classroom.

“How was it?” Feuilly asked, whispering to Grantaire when she sat down.

Grantaire just sighed, resting her face in her hands. “Feuilly, I don’t know if I can last through the term seeing her every day.”

“Was she terrible?” Joly asked from Feuilly’s other side, aghast.

“No,” Grantaire moaned softly, trying not to disrupt Myriel’s lecture. “She was just a bit intense.”

Joly nodded sagely. “That makes sense. She has had that reputation for some time now. After all,” she motioned to the classroom in front of them, “were it not for Enjolras we wouldn’t have this class.”

“Really?” Grantaire asked.

“Yes,” Feuilly said, smiling. “During our third year, Enjolras fought with the headmistress about the inclusion of courses outside the traditional finishing school model. Originally, she wanted to include Physics and Latin as well, but the headmistress wouldn’t budge.”

“The fact that we have history itself is rather impressive,” Joly chimed in, “and most of the girls thought it was incredibly daring at the time, but a few started to see Enjolras as hysterical and trying to stir up conflict. I still think she is impressive, though.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but nod in agreement. She watched Enjolras at the front of the room, raising her hand to contest Myriel’s definition of the role of sin during Ovid’s Silver Age, and thought Joly was right. Enjolras was slightly terrifying, but the more Grantaire learned about her the more awestruck she became.

 

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Grantaire was still in awe by dinner that evening. After the meal, Grantaire watched as Enjolras held court in one corner of the common room with her two friends. Instead of being jealous—Grantaire was certain they were discussing some incredibly dull topic, like international trade, or the agricultural yield of the Ottomans—Grantaire focused her attention on Feuilly and Bossuet regaling her with a story of the time Joly convinced the cook to give them all free dessert. Her efforts were interrupted, however, by one of Enjolras’ friends walking towards them; it was the short, curvy girl with a wide smile.

“Grantaire! My darling,” the girl began, greeting Grantaire with a kiss on her cheek. “It has been terrible of Enjolras not to introduce us, and I’ll never forgive her!”

“Hello, Courfeyrac,” Feuilly said, giving a patient smile. “Lovely to see you as always.”

“Feuilly!” Courfeyrac let go of Grantaire and wrapped Feuilly up in a hug. “It truly has been too long since we last spoke. I beg of you, don’t forget me when you’re singing at the Palais Garnier!” Without missing a beat, she turned back to Grantaire, fixing her with a wide grin. “Now, dear Grantaire, you must excuse our Enjolras. She is not the most welcoming of ladies, but that is why she keeps me around. She mentioned that you spent time in India, how exciting!” She leaned forward, and Grantaire was astounded once more at her beauty. Whereas Enjolras’ beauty was that of a heavenly angel, Courfeyrac’s was a warm and welcoming beauty, that of Hestia to Enjolras’ Athena. “Please, won’t you share some of your stories with Combeferre and I?”

“There really isn’t that much to tell…” Grantaire hesitated, looking to Joly and Bossuet for assistance. Feuilly seemed to know Courfeyrac, but Joly and Bossuet had the same apprehension Grantaire felt on her own face.

“Nonsense! You must have stories _abound_. Also,” She put her lips next to Grantaire’s ears, and Grantaire smelled her soft perfume. “Enjolras’ mother sent us some rum-centered chocolates from Paris, and you _must_ try them, they’re _divine_.”

“That sounds lovely,” Grantaire acquiesced, realizing Courfeyrac wouldn’t give in, no matter her protests. “Only, may Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet join us? We’ve become rather close, and I wouldn’t want them to miss out.”

“Of course!” Courfeyrac pulled Grantaire to her feet, motioning for the other three to follow. “There’s more than enough chocolate, and I assume you have more than enough tales!” She took Grantaire’s arm in hers as they walked towards Enjolras and the other girl Grantaire assumed to be Combeferre. “Between you and I, Enjolras doesn’t much care for rum in her chocolates, but her mother always sends far too many so Combeferre and simply watch as our waists grow and grow! Between the six of us, however, I think we can keep each other in line.”

They reached Enjolras’ corner, where the girl in question sat on a cushion with Combeferre to her left on a small settee. Enjolras was leaning against her friend, who ran her fingers through Enjolras’ long, blonde hair. As Grantaire and Courfeyrac approached, however, Enjolras sat up and motioned to a cushion next to her.

“Grantaire,” she said, “I’m glad you could join us.”

“Courfeyrac didn’t give me much of a choice, I’ll admit,” Grantaire chuckled.

Enjolras’ eyes went wide. “She didn’t do anything ridiculous, did she? I’ve told her that her exuberance can be rather off-putting to those who don’t know her as well, but she has insisted she was going to be kind—“

“No, no, Enjolras,” Grantaire cut in, ignoring Courfeyrac’s giggles. “She was very inviting. I just, didn’t think you’d want to…I don’t know. Never mind.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you, for having my friends and I over. It was wonderful to meet Courfeyrac, and I presume you’re Combeferre?”

The girl in question nodded, lifting out her hand to Grantaire’s. “Indeed. It’s delightful to meet you, especially after what you said to Mademoiselle Fantine the other day in art. I confess I don’t know much about the subject, but you seem well versed in mythology and classical art, which was very impressive. Enjolras has been commenting on it all afternoon.”

Enjolras blushed, tugging on Combeferre’s arm. “What my friend means to say,” She cut in, gritting her teeth, “is that I admired your acumen. Nothing more.”

Grantaire nodded and took a seat next to her; unsure of why Enjolras’ face was growing so red. In all Grantaire knew of her, she had never been anything but self-assured. Yet here she was, blushing like a—well, a schoolgirl. But that word seemed ridiculous when applied to Enjolras.

As Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet settled down next to her and Feuilly’s arm brushed her own, Grantaire was pulled back to the present. “Oh, forgive my manners. This is Feuilly, my roommate, and my friends Joly and Bossuet.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” Combeferre said cordially, “it’s lovely to see you again. Joly, I would love your opinion sometime on that point Myriel brought up about the role of scientific advancement in history.”

Joly smiled. “Of course! Perhaps tomorrow we can discuss it in detail? I know Bossuet hardly has the stomach for the technical details, so it would be fun to work them out with someone most scientifically-minded.”

Grantaire grimaced slightly, remembering that all of these girls had been going to school together for years before Grantaire showed up. She was not introducing them to anyone new. Still, Grantaire watched as Enjolras struck up a conversation with Feuilly about her future prospects as s governess, and the role of work in women’s lives, and she figured at the very least it wouldn’t be as awkward as her and Enjolras talking on their own.

As Courfeyrac passed around a box of chocolates, Grantaire was glad for the buffer of her new friends, as it meant Courfeyrac barely had time to ask about India at all. After her conversation with Enjolras, Grantaire couldn’t say she was eager to bring up her past, if only so she wouldn’t cry in front of these girls the first day they met.

“Do you want to be a governess?” Enjolras pressed, passing Feuilly another chocolate.

“Well,” Feuilly replied, shrugging her shoulders. “Is there any choice? I don’t come from a wealthy family, and my only other option would be to marry into one; I’m not sure that would be preferable to educating children, in all honesty.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said with a grimace, “but why are you limited to those options? Why are _any_ of us limited?”

“Enjolras, my dear, you _know_ why, it doesn’t do to dwell on the impossible,” Combeferre cut in.

“But doesn’t it? How are we supposed to change the status quo if we are all relegated to the home?” She turned to Joly. “You seem to be interested in the scientific method, yes? What would you rather do, if you could do anything?”

Joly blushed, and after a nudge from Bossuet, spoke up. “Well, I’ve always dreamed of working in medicine. Not even as a nurse like Florence Nightingale, but as a doctor.” She laughed. “Of course, I realize that is rather impossible.”

“I’ve dreamed of being a doctor as well,” Combeferre added, smiling slightly. “Elizabeth Garrett Anderson was able to pass her exams just a few years ago, and I think we will see reforms in the future which might allow women to practice medicine the same as men.”

“Do you really think that a feasible reality?” Grantaire asked, “After all, even if women are able to follow in Anderson’s footsteps, what makes you think many will? She could be an outlier, rather than the norm.”

“And what makes you say that?” Enjolras spoke up, her voice low and serious. “Do you think women are not qualified to pursue medicine?”

Grantaire scoffed. “Of course I’m not saying that, I’m simply arguing that the men in power would rather perish than let a woman take their place. As long as power is held by men, women will never reach the advancement you suggest.”

Feuilly hissed in a breath, and Grantaire watches as Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “Grantaire, I don’t understand what issue you take with this thought exercise, but I’m not offering to change the world overnight. We are simply arguing that women’s advancement must take place, if society is to move forward. There can be no success if women are still relegated as second class citizens, be it in the field of medicine or anywhere.”

“And you think you will be the one to institute such change?” Grantaire shot back.

Enjolras nodded. “Of course.”

There was a beat of silence, and the conversation eventually picked back up, but Grantaire kept her eyes on Enjolras for a few minutes more. The blonde was looking at her with anger in her eyes, but also something more. Hope, perhaps? Grantaire didn’t understand this beautiful, wealthy girl who for some reason wanted to change the world, but part of her wished that one day she would understand. If only to feel the passion that Enjolras lived her life with.

Soon, Madame Mabeuf called for bed, and the group broke apart. But even as she fell asleep, Grantaire couldn’t stop thinking about the fire in Enjolras’ eyes. That verve for change and progress, it made her face light up, and Grantaire was enamored.

 

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Classes continued, as did Grantaire’s lessons with Enjolras, and they met nearly every afternoon during study period. Slowly, Grantaire felt Prentiss becoming more of a home and less of an exercise in manners; even the French lessons were improved, if only because Grantaire could spend an hour in the presence of Enjolras without her nosey friends who were beginning to ask questions as to why Grantaire was so interested in the blonde girl. If they ever reached the question, though, Grantaire wasn’t sure she would have an answer. After all, she herself was unaware as to why Enjolras troubled her so. It was more than jealousy, more than admiration; there was something about Enjolras which Grantaire craved, although she could not put her finger on it.

Le Gros was still exhausting, and her other classes rather dull, but Grantaire found her passion in art. Not only was it an area in which she was fairly successful, but also Mademoiselle Fantine allowed them to do more than paint still life portraits of fruit over and over. They gathered wildflowers and pressed them into the canvas while discussing the different species of plants, they studied books on renaissance art and mythology, and Fantine taught them as much about poetry and symbolism as art. Their continued study of Tennyson, Grantaire found, was something she looked forward to each day. _Come into the garden, Maud,_ she sang in her head, following Enjolras’ golden locks as they walked into the classroom together.

As they took their seats, Fantine pulled out her little volume of poetry, and turned to a page. Grantaire watched as some of the girls moved to canvases or took out watercolors to use, but she did not feel like painting today. Instead, she simply sat at a desk with her notebook and pencil, and set about drawing flowers; today, it was columbine and fennel.

“ _I have play’d with her when a child / she remembers it now we meet / ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled / by some coquettish deceit_ ” Fantine began, her voice low and melodious.

Grantaire couldn’t say she was paying strict attention to the language, but she noticed Enjolras sit up straight and face Fantine head-on, ignoring the sketchbook open in front of her.

“ _Yet if she were not a cheat / if Maud were all that she seem’d / and her smile had all that I dream’d / then the world were not so bitter / but a smile could make it sweet.”_

“Apologies,” Enjolras interrupted, causing Fantine to look up from her book. “Mademoiselle, may I ask a question?”

“Of course, Enjolras,” Fantine said with a smile.

“This part of the poem, it doesn’t strike me as romantic. Maud, she’s what the story is about—after all, her name is the title—and yet the narrator is doubting her intent and her character? Later he even talks about his jealousy, as if he _owns_ Maud, right?”

“That is one way to analyze it, yes,” Fantine replied.

Enjolras huffed, and Grantaire watched as she twisted a piece of paper in her hands. “Well, I don’t think that is romantic at all. In fact, I think it’s rather disingenuous for this man to be telling Maud’s tale without her. Since when are men the writers and controllers of women’s lives in this way? Should we not be telling our own stories?”

“Enjolras,” one of the other girls sighed, “I don’t think Tennyson meant it in a rude way. It’s a lovely poem.”

“You only see what the world has taught you to see, Richardson,” Enjolras snapped, turning back to Fantine. “I simply wondered, might we hear some more women’s voices in this course? On our first day, Grantaire mentioned Gentileschi; we should be studying women artists in the same way we study men.”

Grantaire was nothing less than shocked when Enjolras mentioned her. How could Enjolras remember a comment Grantaire made on the first day of class? Before they had even begun to know each other?

“Well, Enjolras, you make a good point. We, a roomful of women, should be reading the works of the women who came before us.” Fantine nodded and put down her Tennyson book.

“Wait,” Richardson spoke up again. Grantaire was once again truly grateful she had made such fast friends with Feuilly and the rest of them; Richardson and the others in their grade seemed far to snobby for Grantaire to take seriously. “But I enjoy the Tennyson, I don’t want to read about some tart from the middle ages!”

“Mademoiselle Richardson, please,” Fantine cautioned as other girls in the class began to whisper.

“I think Enjolras’ idea is inspired,” Feuilly spoke up bravely. “It makes sense for women to chronicle their own lives.”

Enjolras smiled at her, and continued in her quest for revolution in the art curriculum. “Mademoiselle Fantine, would it be too much trouble to look at some works by women over the past centuries? I know of a few, but your advice is always well-received.”

Fantine stood up. “Well, Enjolras, I must say you have convinced me. I’ll do some work and find a few new authors to introduce. Who knows, maybe we will even read some Sappho.” She winked at Enjolras. “As continuing to read from _Maud_ seems out of the question, I’ll dismiss you now to have some time before your next class.”

 

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That evening after dinner, Grantaire found herself in Enjolras’ corner, sitting next to the girl in question with Feuilly on her other side, as had become normal over the past few weeks of classes. She could tell the conversation from art was still on Enjolras’ mind, particularly as Grantaire could not seem to get it out of her head either. For one, Enjolras had brought up Grantaire’s _favorite artist_ , and for another, had seemingly changed the trajectory of their course. Although Grantaire didn’t fully agree with Enjolras’ crusade, she conceded that Tennyson’s words were a bit dreary, and it would be nice to hear something else for a change.

“One thing I don’t understand,” Enjolras began, as a bout of laughter from Joly and Courfeyrac died down, “is why Fantine brought up Sappho I haven’t read any of her work, but I thought she was an ancient poet, not a modern woman?”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac laughed again. “You truly do not know of Sappho and her island? Why, I would assume a suffragist like you would be well acquainted with the subject! Or,” she turned to Grantaire, her eyes dancing, “perhaps the resident mythologist herself would care to tell us the significance of Sappho’s works?

Grantaire felt her face grow red, and she couldn’t understand why Courfeyrac was teasing her so. “I, uh, I’m not versed in her works, I’m afraid.”

Courfeyrac hummed, but did not press further. “Well, then _I_ shall tell the dramatic tale of how Sappho took pleasure from _women_ as from _men_!” She laughed as Joly and Bossuet gaped. “Oh, you cannot be that shocked! Her love poems chronicled the _amorous_ love between two women, as in the tales of Calisto, and the nymphs of Artemis—“

“Courfeyrac,” Feuilly cut in with a smile on her face, “you can’t make the blanket assumption that all of Artemis’ nymphs were Sapphic.”

_Sapphic_ , Grantaire thought to herself. That word, a real word that represented the romantic love between two women? Was such a thing possible?

“But Feuilly, my darling Feuilly, of course! Running through the woods with naught but their underclothes, dancing in the light of the full moon,” she leaned over Combeferre, practically draping herself over the other girl, “kissing each other’s wine-stained lips.”

Combeferre laughed, pushing Courfeyrac away, and Grantaire saw the edges of Courfeyrac’s mouth turn down.

“No, I understand your point, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras spoke up, her eyes wide. “They _were_ all free of the chains of men, living life as they chose, not as was predetermined by their sex!”

“Exactly!” Courfeyrac crowed, clapping her hands. “Were they not the first _féministes?”_

“It is our duty to follow in the footsteps of the sisters of Artemis, then,” Enjolras continued, smiling broadly. “We should form a society for the advancement of women, freeing ourselves from the shackles which men claim are for _our_ benefit! Grantaire, do you know anything of the rituals and blessings given to Artemis during ancient times?”

Grantaire stuttered as everyone’s eyes fell on her. “Oh, I mean, I’m not sure? Not much has been written about them, but from what I gather, the moon was of great significance? As the sister of Apollo, the god of the sun, Artemis was said to control the moon?”

“Then that settles it,” Enjolras said, voice low and quiet. “To begin our sisterhood, we must hold a ritual in the moonlight. Tomorrow night, after everyone has gone to sleep, let us meet out by the river to solidify our pact as the daughters of Artemis.”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet said, looking nervous. “Are you sure that would be a good idea? I can’t imagine the headmistress would take kindly to half our class sneaking out after dark.”

“It is the only way, Bossuet,” Enjolras said with certainty. “This is how it must be, and this will let us become truly free.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras talk about this club with the gravitas of King Arthur forming his round table, as if seven girls meeting in the woods would reshape their society. In that moment, Grantaire knew she would follow Enjolras to the ends of the earth.

“Are we all agreed? Will you join me?” Enjolras looked at them all in turn, and each girl agreed, with Courfeyrac shaking Enjolras’ hand as if they had just agreed to a business deal.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras finally reached her, and Grantaire felt her head nod, against all judgment.

Enjolras’ smile was worth the trouble.

As she and Feuilly returned to their room that evening, Grantaire felt her nerves flare up.

“Feuilly,” she began as they changed into their nightclothes. “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for this adventure?”

“Enjolras is smart, and she won’t let harm come to us,” Feuilly said with assurance. “Even so, her father has enough sway that I doubt we would get expelled, if we were caught.”

“Her father?” Grantaire asked.

Feuilly nodded. “Admiral William Enjolras, decorated war hero. From what I know, he has quite the power at Prentiss, and was one of the reasons Enjolras hasn’t been in trouble for all her antics.”

Grantaire was still nervous, but she said goodnight to Feuilly and tried to fall asleep. Daughter of a war hero, painfully upper class, and devoted to social change? Enjolras continued to confuse her, but Grantaire could help but feel a sense of excitement as she thought about their meeting the next night. She didn’t know what it would entail, but surely it would be more interesting with Enjolras there.

 

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“We can’t stay out too late,” were Joly’s first words the next evening as the girls made their way down the steps of the entrance hall to the front door. “I must be well rested for Assembly Day tomorrow.”

Grantaire froze, and Courfeyrac barreled into her, with Enjolras shushing them for the outburst. “Assembly Day is _tomorrow_? How could I forget?”

“Please, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “Quiet until we are in the open air. It won’t do well for us to get caught before we even make it to the river.”

Grantaire huffed but acquiesced, keeping her thoughts to herself as the seven of them slipped out the door and onto the dewy lawn, skirts bustling around them. Assembly Day was tomorrow? Grantaire was woefully unprepared to see Alphonse again, particularly as she did not know how she could explain the development of her…feelings regarding Enjolras. How did one broach the subject?

_“Brother dearest, I must inform you of my decision not to marry whomever you bring to me.”_

_“Oh, are you in love or, rather, in lust, with another man?”_

_“Of course not. I doubt I will ever desire a man as I desire a woman, so it would be a waste of both your time and mine to peddle men to me as if I will ever see them as an option.”_

_“Of course, sister dear, I respect your decision.”_

That would be the day, when Grantaire could both explain her feelings _and_ know her brother would respect them. Rather than expecting the best, however, Grantaire took a deep breath and focused on her friends, ignoring whatever hell awaited her the next morning.

They approached the woods on the edge of Prentiss’ grounds, and Enjolras led them through the trees until they reached a clearing at the edge of the small river. Were it not for the glowing of the full moon, Grantaire would be unable to make out the features of her friends.

“Next time,” she spoke up, breaking the silence which had settled over them, “we should bring candles. Also a coat.” She shivered, and laughed slightly as Courfeyrac grabbed her from behind.

“Fear not, Grantaire! I shall keep you warm.” Courfeyrac rested her head on Grantaire’s shoulder, even as she was too short to reach without standing on her toes.

“Courfeyrac, might you take this seriously for one moment?” Enjolras asked, frowning. “I want to do this right.” She reached into her dress and pulled out a flask, which had Courfeyrac crowing with delight.

“Gracious, Enjolras,” she cried, trying to grab the flask from Enjolras’ hands. “Did we come out to the forest to get properly sloshed?”

“I just wanted a ceremonial drink,” Enjolras explained, motioning for them to form a circle. Grantaire found herself between Feuilly and Combeferre, directly across from Enjolras. “I want us all to swear an oath, promising ourselves to the future of women’s success.”

“Exciting!” Joly said, bouncing up and down, either from the joy of the ritual or due to the frigid air.

Enjolras took a deep breath, and Grantaire felt as if the energy in the forest shifted into something more serious. She looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn, and began to speak.

“Repeat after me.” Enjolras held the flask out in front of her. “I promise to uphold the values of the women who came before me, creating a world in which we are free to break the chains of men and live independent lives.”

They all repeated the phrase in turn, and Enjolras began to pass the flask around. “This is the start of a new generation of women,” Enjolras continued as Joly grimaced from whatever alcohol Enjolras had procured. “We will build a world in which we can be doctors, lawyers, presidents, and kings. No longer will our husbands or fathers control our lives; we must have the choices which are offered to the men around us.”

The flask reached Grantaire, and she took a long sip, pleasantly surprised at the warmth of whiskey; had it been rum, Grantaire might have made a face similar to Joly, but the whiskey warmed her to her toes, and Grantaire smiled at Enjolras.

“I believe in each and every one of you, and I know that this group, which I anoint as the Daughters of Artemis, will create the society we wish to live in. Onward, my sisters, to victory!” With a dramatic finish, Enjolras grabbed onto Bossuet and Courfeyrac’s hands next to her, and Grantaire found her hands encircled by Feuilly and Combeferre’s, grasping them tightly.

As they stood in silence, Grantaire was once again struck by the feeling that, with the power Enjolras had imbued in her speech, Grantaire could see the shockwaves developing around the world. Were there a woman that Grantaire could see following in the footsteps of Joan of Arc, it would be Enjolras, and Grantaire would follow her anywhere.

The moment was broken when Courfeyrac let out a loud whoop, wrestling the flask out of Combeferre’s hands to take another long sip. “Wonderful!” She cried, passing the flask to Joly, “now let us drink and be merry!”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, resting against a tree, “this is important. We are not here to gossip, we’re here to discuss the ways we want to change Prentiss and society in our favor, and to develop our identities as women outside of the men who claim to control us.”

“Yes, yes,” Courfeyrac sighed, waving her off. “You say that nearly every day, my love, but you never bribe us with alcohol. I will always support your revolution if you bring me a bottle of whiskey each day!”

“Here here!” Grantaire chimed in.

“This group should be more than just planning and serious activity, Enjolras,” Combeferre spoke up, brushing a hand against Enjolras’ arm. At the touch, Enjolras relaxed almost automatically, and Grantaire was jealous for a moment before coming to her senses. What was she jealous of? Combeferre and Enjolras being friends? There was nothing worth being jealous of, particularly when Grantaire was on her way to being friends with Enjolras.

“After all, it isn’t just the professions which men have barred us from, think about the lighter side of oppression,” Combeferre continued. “I would argue that simply by being ourselves and existing in this little space, we are doing enough against the powers that be, would you not agree?”

Grantaire watched Enjolras mull it over, pulling her lip between her teeth. “I agree,” she finally said, “that I might have been quick to judgment. Very well, what rebellious activity should we do to represent our freedom?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes darted towards the river, and back to Enjolras, a grin lighting up her face.

“Courfeyrac—“ Enjolras began with warning.

“Oh, we must!” Courfeyrac said, wiggling her eyebrows at Grantaire. “You’ll join, won’t you, Grantaire?”

“This is not what I meant,” Combeferre said, rubbing her face with her hands.

“Um, what is the suggestion?” Bossuet finally piped up, causing Courfeyrac’s grin to widen.

“We’re going for a swim!”

Oh no, Grantaire thought. This could only end _terribly._

“I don’t think that would be the smartest use of our evening—“ Enjolras tried again, but Courfeyrac cut her off.

“Enjolras, I swear on my mother’s name, that if you don’t swim with us I’ll say you are an anti-suffragist!”

Enjolras simply rolled her eyes, but she began to unbutton her bodice. Courfeyrac whooped once more and moved to take hers off as well, and Grantaire stood, stock-still, as she watched Enjolras reveal the shift she was wearing under her school-issued bodice, corset and skirt. Grantaire had seen girls undress before; sharing a room with Feuilly, the two girls had become comfortable around each other fairly quickly. But there was something about seeing Enjolras’ body, how the thin shift fell gently over her breasts and tapered into a loose-fitting set of pants that fell to her knees that made Grantaire’s heartbeat speed up.

“Come on, Grantaire,” Joly called out from where she was pulling off her own skirt, “don’t be the last of us to be ready!”

Snapped out of her thoughts, Grantaire turned to her own bodice and skirt, fingers feeling thick and clumsy as she struggled with the buttons down her front.

“Do you, uh,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire realized she had moved towards Grantaire until they were face to face, Enjolras in her shift and Grantaire still working on her top button. “Do you need any help? I know these Prentiss uniforms can be rather difficult.”

Grantaire felt her face heating up, and she couldn’t explain why for the life of her. “I, er, I would appreciate it,” she said finally, her voice at a near whisper.

All of the sounds around them, the laughter of Courfeyrac and Bossuet and the protests of Combeferre, drowned out and Grantaire focused her entire being on Enjolras in front of her. Enjolras’ slender, delicate fingers reached forward and brushed Grantaire’s neck, unbuttoning her bodice one by one, the only sound between them Grantaire’s breathing. She felt her heartbeat racing, and wondered if Enjolras could feel it, her hands now brushing against her chest. Even with Grantaire’s shift between them, it felt strangely intimate for another woman to undress her like so.

When Enjolras reached the buttons on her waist, Grantaire finally cleared her throat and put a hand on top of Enjolras. “Thank you,” she said, voice strangely hoarse. “I, uh, appreciate the help.”

“Of course,” Enjolras replied in a soft voice. Grantaire noticed how she wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m glad I could assist. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on Courfeyrac’s grand adventure giving us all pneumonia.” With a soft laugh, Enjolras took a step back, breaking the spell which had fallen over them. Suddenly, Grantaire was hit with the sound of splashing from behind Enjolras, and looked over to see the other four girls in the water, with shrieks from Combeferre and Joly as Courfeyrac threw handfuls of water at them.

“Shall we?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire quickly untied her skirt and corset before following Enjolras’ lithe form down to the river’s edge. If she had been cold before, taking off her dress had left Grantaire shivering, and she could see Enjolras was not much better off.

“Come in!” Bossuet shouted.

“Is it any warmer in there?” Grantaire asked, hesitantly touching a foot to the water’s edge. She pulled back as the freezing water hit her toe just as Bossuet laughed.

“Of course not! But Courfeyrac has now decided it’s a rite of passage, to be baptized in the waters of women’s advancement.”

Enjolras took the first step into the water, letting out an inhumane shriek as the water came up to her knees. Without thinking twice, Grantaire followed Enjolras in, hissing at the temperature of the water. The river was fairly shallow, with the water hitting Courfeyrac’s waist at its deepest point, but it was frigid and Grantaire felt as if her toes were already turning blue.

“Courfeyrac,” she called out, “this is _ridiculous_.”

The girl in question came bounding over, splashing water onto Grantaire’s arms. “Ridiculous? I think you mean _invigorating_!” She took Grantaire’s hand and pulled her deeper into the river. “Don’t you feel _alive_?”

Grantaire looked over to where Enjolras was standing with Combeferre, her arms over her chest and shivering, even as she smiled at her friends. “I suppose you’re right, Courfeyrac,”

Courfeyrac looked between Grantaire and Enjolras, her eyes widening.

“Wait, do you—“

“No! What?” Grantaire spluttered, feeling her face grow warm. “This water, it’s certainly refreshing!”

“But, Enjolras—“

Grantaire stopped that line of thought by shoving Courfeyrac backwards. She lost her balance and toppled into the water, shrieking as she went down.

“My hair!” Courfeyrac shouted when she stood back up. “Oh, you’ll pay for that my dear!” She pulled Grantaire forward, and Grantaire felt the water crash against her chest as she went under, holding her breath until she could get her head above the surface.

“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Grantaire said, laughing. “Now can we go back inside? I feel as if my fingers will fall off.”

It seemed as if that was the cue, as everyone started to move towards the shore, fingers and toes numb as they put their clothes back on. Grantaire made sure to avoid eye contact with Enjolras or Courfeyrac as she buttoned her bodice; there had been enough excitement tonight, and Grantaire didn’t need any more.

As she walked back to her room with Feuilly, Grantaire felt the same fluttering in her stomach whenever her thoughts drifted to Enjolras’ smile, or the feeling of her fingers on Grantaire’s breast. Grantaire was sure she couldn’t continue to think of this as feelings of friendship, at least not much longer.

 

+-+-+-+--

 

Grantaire woke up the next morning invigorated from her night with Enjolras, before her mood plummeted at the reminder that it was Assembly Day. She spent the morning with Feuilly doing her hair and making sure her dress was free of stains and well-pressed, rather than thinking about any of the confusing parts of her life as of late: Enjolras, her brother, her future. There was no point on dwelling when she could instead be running her fingers through Feuilly’s red locks and braiding them intricately to fall down her back.

“So, Lady Feuilly, how does it feel to be a Polish royal for the day?” Grantaire asked in her most smarmy voice.

“Oh, Lady de Grantaire, it is my absolute _pleasure_ to spend the day with you!” Feuilly responded, laughing.

Grantaire patted her on the shoulder and walked over to her armoire, pulling out a deep-blue dress and bringing it over to Feuilly. “I was wondering if you wanted to borrow this? It doesn’t work particularly well with my complexion, but I have no doubt it will bring out your eyes.”

“Oh Grantaire,” Feuilly breathed, running her hands over the fabric. “This is _lovely_ , but I can’t accept.”

“It’s just for the day. I won’t be wearing it, and it wouldn’t do to have Lady Feuilly, a member of the _Szlachta_ , to wear her school uniform.” Grantaire left the dress with Feuilly and moved to put on her own gown, a pale yellow muslin which was understated compared to Feuilly’s gown. When she turned around, Feuilly was dressed except for the buttons down her back, which Grantaire quickly helped fasten.

“You look the picture of nobility!” She said, laughing.

Feuilly twirled in a circle, and smiled as she looked in the mirror. “Grantaire, you absolute _angel_ , this is perfect.” She pulled Grantaire into a hug, and Grantaire’s heart felt full.

The girls made their way down to breakfast, meeting the other members of their little society at the table which was quickly becoming _their_ table. With a smile, Grantaire sat down across from Enjolras, who immediately looked over Grantaire and Feuilly, eyes wide.

“Grantaire, you look lovely,” she said softly.

Grantaire couldn’t help but blush, running her hands across her skirt. “Thank you,” she replied. “Uh, you look wonderful as well.”

That was an understatement. Enjolras’ dress was a deep green and fit her like a glove, with a low-cut bodice Grantaire thought the headmistress would certainly disapprove of. Grantaire’s heart beat faster, and she cleared her throat to prevent herself from staring at Enjolras any longer.

“Feuilly!” Joly exclaimed, “You look absolutely divine! Wherever did you get that dress?”

“Grantaire let me borrow it for the day, we’re playing a bit of a practical joke on her brother,” Feuilly explained.

“Also, the dress fits her far better than it ever fit me,” Grantaire mentioned, giving a smile to show her comments were in jest. “It’s always better for the dress to be worn by a woman who wears it with such grace!”

Joly and Bossuet continued to exclaim over how wonderful Feuilly looks, but Grantaire turned her attention back to Enjolras, who was scrutinizing her.

“I think you would look exceptional in that dress,” Enjolras said lowly, looking deep into Grantaire’s eyes.

“Oh,” Grantaire felt the words leave her. She knew how to respond to compliments, had been taught from youth the proper way a lady was to thank someone for their kind words. And yet there, Grantaire felt lost. “Uh, thank you? But I am sure Feuilly wears it better.”

Enjolras frowned, but dropped the subject, for which Grantaire was grateful. With a deep breath, Grantaire took a sip of her tea and tried to bring the conversation back to safer topics.

“Are you excited about the days events?” She asked, hoping for a casual tone.

“Oh, yes,” Enjolras said, her voice full of emotion. “I do hope you can all meet my father. He’s promised to bring me a new set of books which were just published in London, and I’m eager for him to meet my closest friends!”

“I feel as if I’m his daughter, for how excited I am to meet him as well!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, taking a sip of her tea.

“Wait, hasn’t he visited in past years?”

Courfeyrac’s lips turned down, and she looked back towards her breakfast.

“He’s been busy,” Enjolras said with conviction. “His last trip involved travel to Cape Horn, and I know his work is important, so he hasn’t been able to visit as often as one would expect.” Grantaire looked for signs of doubt in her eyes, but saw none.

“And you think he will come this year?” She asked.

“Of course,” Enjolras said, meeting her eyes. “I have no reservations.” With a slight smile, she turned to Feuilly. “Oh, Feuilly, did you want to spend the day with me? I wouldn’t want you to have to be alone.”

Feuilly smiled and shook her head. “Actually, Grantaire has already offered to let me visit with her brother this morning.”

“She’s doing me a favor,” Grantaire interjected, “as there will be less I have to discuss with my insufferable brother if he’s distracted by this beautiful Polish princess.”

Feuilly blushed, but nudged Grantaire’s shoulder with her own. “I do appreciate the offer, Enjolras,” she continued, “but I’ll also be spending some time with Cosette.”

“Who?” Enjolras asked, glancing between Feuilly and Grantaire with a look of confusion.

“She’s a year younger than us, friends with Prouvaire?” Enjolras nodded. “She’s also here on scholarship, and I know her foster father was unable to make the journey for Assembly Day, so I thought I would keep her company for the afternoon.”

Enjolras nodded. “That sounds lovely. I remember speaking with Prouvaire once or twice; she is rather fond of poetry, no?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “She read from that book of Byron the other week that you thought was lovely.”

“Well,” Enjolras said, smiling once again at Feuilly. “You should invite her and Cosette to join us during our evening meetings. I have no doubt that we should expand our circle beyond our class. The more women who join, the better.”

“I’ll pass along the invitation,” Feuilly said. “I’m sure they will be excited to participate. I know Cosette admires the work you do, Enjolras.”

Enjolras nodded, and turned to Combeferre, striking up a conversation about the most recent history course. Grantaire’s appreciation of Enjolras, however, did not extend to her interest in history, so she nudged Feuilly with her arm.

“Have we concocted a cover story which my brother will believe?” She whispered in Feuilly’s ear, causing the girl to giggle.

“I believe so!” Feuilly returned. “I doubt he knows much Polish, or anything about the continent. From what you’ve told me, he’s a rather stodgy man, and I think it will be a laugh.”

Grantaire let out a small snicker as she thought of Alphonse’s ridiculous attitude when faced with a member of Polish nobility.

Breakfast came to an end, and Grantaire and Feuilly made their way to the front hall to find Alphonse standing amongst other doting parents. His eyes widened as he saw Grantaire and Feuilly next to her, but Grantaire was unable to fully appreciate his reaction, as she saw the man standing next to him in a full waistcoat with a top hat in his hands. The man looked a few years older than Grantaire, with sandy hair and a kind smile, but Grantaire felt her mood darken. Had Alphonse brought a _suitor_? The first time Grantaire had seen her brother in weeks, and he thought it would be an appropriate time to try and marry Grantaire off to some unsuspecting wealthy businessman?

“Alphonse, my dear brother,” Grantaire said with a charming smile, channeling all her anger into pulling her brother into a tight hug. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Adelaide,” Alphonse grunted, and Grantaire remembered how she had always been stronger than her brother, whose arms resembled beanstalks. “As always, a pleasure.” He finally pulled away, and Grantaire let him, to return to standing next to Feuilly.

“Alphonse,” she said before he could bring up the man next to him, “I wanted to introduce you to my dearest friend, Her Highness Alexandra Feuilly, a member of the Polish nobility.”

“ _Miło mi cię poznać_ ,” Feuilly began, smiling brightly. Grantaire hadn’t a clue what Feuilly was saying, but they both decided it would be rather hilarious if the entire afternoon were spent pretending Grantaire had learned fluent Polish during her few weeks at Prentiss.

“Oh!” Grantaire exclaimed, putting a hand over her mouth, “I do apologize dear brother, I forgot you don’t _speak_ any Polish.”

Before she could continue, reveling in Alphonse’s shocked face, jaw wide open, the man next to him spoke up.

“ _Dama Feuilly, to zaszczyt. Z jakiej jesteś rodziny?”_ he said in pristine Polish.

It was Grantaire’s turn to drop her jaw, and she saw Feuilly’s eyes widen as well.

“ _Raczej stara rodzina, nie jestem pewien, czy byś je znał,”_ Feuilly responded, looking over at Grantaire with a worried look. They hadn’t prepared for a strangely adept suitor to accompany Grantaire’s foolish brother.

“Before we continue,” Grantaire broke in in English, “who is this gentleman with you, dear brother?”

Alphonse snapped out of the stunned looks he kept giving Feuilly to turn to Grantaire. “Forgive me, dear sister, I’d like you to meet the Baron Pontmercy. His family is part of the East India Company, and he’s travelled extensively. I thought you would appreciate meeting him; I know travel has been important for you.”

Grantaire glowered at her brother, refusing to look at the Baron Pontmercy. How dare he try to set her up with this merchant’s son?

“Uh,” Pontmercy spoke up in English, “Mademoiselle de Grantaire? It’s wonderful to meet you, your brother has told me much about you.”

“I prefer Grantaire,” she answered, still not making eye contact. Instead, Grantaire hooked her arm through Feuilly’s and walked towards the front door. “Shall we continue this conversation outside? Prentiss is so dreary indoors, but the gardens are enjoyable.” Without waiting for her brother’s response, Grantaire steered her friend out the door, assuming he and the Baron would follow behind.

“What was that?” Feuilly whispered as they walked, “who is this man?”

“Someone my brother is trying to marry me off to, I assume,” Grantaire answered through gritted teeth. She was stomping through the grass, ignoring how dirty the hem of her dress was getting.

“Someone who just _happens_ to speak Polish? And know of the Polish nobility?” Feuilly’s voice climbed higher and higher. “I don’t know if we can keep up this charade, Grantaire.”

“Well, we have to,” Grantaire decided. “I’ll try to distract Poncey, and you can take my brother. He doesn’t speak any Polish, so just talk gibberish to him and he’ll get so annoyed he’ll never want to visit me again.”

Feuilly sighed, but nodded, and they walked towards a pair of benches at the corner of Prentiss’ gardens. Turning around, Grantaire saw her brother and Pontmercy walking briskly towards them, apparently in deep conversation.

“Adelaide,” Alphonse said with a smile, “I’m sure Monsieur Pontmercy can keep Her Highness occupied for a few moments? I have some family matters I need to discuss with you.”

Grantaire rolled her eyes, but nodded, looking back at Feuilly. “Just, make something up,” she whispered as Feuilly smiled.

“This is going to end _terribly_ ,” Feuilly hissed back as she took Pontmercy’s outstretched arm, and sat with him on one of the benches.

“Now, brother dearest, what on earth did you want?” Grantaire snapped when they were out of earshot.

“Father is ill,” Alphonse said in a low voice.

Grantaire felt her breath catch, but she just continued to frown at Alphonse. Although the words reminded her of what her mother had gone through just months ago, Grantaire had never been as close with her father, and the thought of his suffering was not enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“And what does that have to do with me? Or are you just giving me an update?”

“It concerns you, because Father is worried about your future, and the future of our family should you be unable to find a suitable marriage,” Alphonse said. “That’s why I have brought the Baron with me today; I was hoping—er, I _am_ hoping that you and he might work well together. His family comes from means, and I have no doubt he would be able to take care of you should Father pass.”

“Really?” Grantaire scoffed. “You’re trying to guilt me into courting this man? Alphonse, we haven’t spoken two words to each other, and I doubt I’ll fall madly in love with him—“

“You don’t need to be in love,” Alphonse said with the tired air of a man who had had this conversation before. “Marriage isn’t about love, it’s about a relationship which can benefit a man and a woman in society. We mustn’t talk of love when we talk about your future.”

“Well then maybe I don’t want to marry.”

Alphonse put his head in his hands. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He took a deep breath and waved over Feuilly and Pontmercy. “Now. I’m going to go speak to your friend, and I want you to _try_ to get to know him? Think of our father.” He turned to Feuilly, putting on a charming smile. “ _Mademoiselle, parlez-vous Français, peut-etre?_ ”

Feuilly nodded; her French had always been better than Grantaire’s—although not to the level of Enjolras. With a questioning frown at Grantaire, she was led away and Grantaire was left with the slightly awkward, red-faced Baron Pontmercy.

“It was wonderful to talk to your friend,” Pontmercy began. “I must say I don’t often have the opportunity to practice my Polish, so it was a lovely surprise.”

“I can imagine,” Grantaire muttered, avoiding eye contact.

There was a moment of silence, and Grantaire didn’t care enough to try to prevent the awkwardness which was developing between them. Perhaps if Pontmercy thought her a sullen, obnoxious child, he would be less inclined to marry her.

“Do you speak any other languages?” Pontmercy asked.

“No, unfortunately.” Grantaire sighed. “Do you?”

“Just a few. French, Polish, Italian, and a bit of German, though I’m working to improve it.”

“That sounds rather exhaustive, Baron,” Grantaire commented, looking out over the garden.

“Oh, please, call me Marius. Baron was my father’s title, and I’ve inherited it but it doesn’t sit right with me.”

Grantaire smiled at that. “I know the feeling. I use my surname rather than my given name for that very reason.”

Before they could continue, a girl brushed passed Grantaire’s shoulder and ran directly into Marius, with Marius falling backwards onto the grass.

“Oh!” the girl cried out, and Grantaire recognized the petit frame of Cosette. “I’m so terribly sorry, Monsieur.”

Marius looked up into her eyes, and Grantaire felt relieved, as she knew there would be no proposal from the young man. He gazed at Cosette with stars in her eyes, and Grantaire wondered briefly if she ever looked at Enjolras like that.

“Mademoiselle, you are not at fault. I should have been more aware of my surroundings as well,” he said, speaking softly as he got to his feet.

Cosette blushed, and gave a small curtsy before turning around and rushing over to Feuilly, nearly pulling her away from the stilted conversation she was having with Alphonse.

“Who was _that_ ,” Marius breathed, turning back to Grantaire.

“Oh, that was our dear friend Cosette, she’s a year younger.” Grantaire tried to think of something she knew about the girl, but realized she hadn’t ever spoken to her outside of the few conversations around meals. “She’s, um, a sweet girl.”

Marius smiled, his eyes following Cosette and Feuilly as they walked back towards the castle. “She was the personification of grace. Grantaire,” he faced her head on. “I know I am here to court you, but have you ever felt that your heart is leading you in a direction which is against the desires of the world around you?”

Grantaire felt her breath catch in her throat. “I have, Marius.”

He took her hands. “Were we to meet again, could you perhaps introduce me to Cosette properly? I feel as if I would be unable to commit my heart to you were Cosette still in the world.”

“Marius,” Grantaire said with relish, “I will do anything in my power to help you.” If it meant avoiding marriage for until Alphonse found another unsuspecting young man, Grantaire would happily play cupid.

At that moment, Alphonse walked over to them, frowning slightly. “Did you see what became of your Polish friend, Adelaide? She ran off with a young girl—I didn’t catch her name.”

“ _Cosette_ ,” Marius breathed once more, stars in his eyes.

“Cosette Fauchelevent?” Alphonse sniffed, “the orphan Count Ultime Fauchelevent took in?” He turned to Marius. “You can surely do better than a girl whose only future is as a governess.”

“Oh come now, Alphonse,” Grantaire said with a sigh. “Can’t you move past these outdated notions of marriage? Marriage for love is not so far out of the norm, and I’m sure the Baron Pontmercy agrees with me.”

Marius shook his head vigorously.

“Adelaide, I will not continue to hold the same arguments with you over and over.” Alphonse looked at the sun growing high in the sky. “Now, I’m afraid we must cut this visit short; Monsieur Pontmercy’s grandfather is expecting him for dinner, and we want to be back in London in time for that. Terribly sorry we won’t stay for tea.”

_Thank the Lord_ , Grantaire thought. “I look forward to seeing you after term ends, then,” Grantaire said out loud. She turned to Marius, giving him a deep curtsy. “And to you, Monsieur Pontmercy, I hope to see you in the future.”

Marius grinned, and gave Grantaire’s hand a kiss. “I look forward to seeing you again as well, Miss Grantaire.”

With a final goodbye, Grantaire watched the two men make their way towards the line of carriages. Without giving her brother a second thought, she turned on her heel and began searching for Feuilly and Cosette, hoping the latter felt about Marius what he felt for her.

She eventually found them in an alcove near the kitchens, a tin of biscuits between them.

“…He had the most _beautiful_ eyes, Feuilly my dear, I don’t know if you got a glimpse of them, but I was transfixed,” Cosette was saying as Feuilly bit into a biscuit.

“Was he really that dreamy?” She asked. “Of course, I was slightly distracted, but I admit he seemed nice.”

“Oh, he was more than nice,” Cosette sighed.

Grantaire cleared her throat, smiling at the conversation she was hearing.

“Can it be? Cosette, it sounds like you’re smitten,” she said, sitting down next to Feuilly.

“Oh Grantaire!” Cosette cried, “can you tell me anything more about this Monsieur Pontmercy? Feuilly knows nothing, and I am eager to meet him again.

“Well,” Grantaire said with a smile, leaning towards Cosette. “Do I have some exciting news for you.”

 

+-+-+--

 

After laughing with Cosette and Feuilly and devouring the biscuits between them, Grantaire was in high spirits as she made her way down the hallway to dinner. Feuilly and Cosette were behind her, but Grantaire wanted to change out of her dress before the meal. As she walked passed the library, however, she heard a soft sniff from inside which made her pause. Quietly, she pushed open the door and glanced around, noticing a figure hunched over a desk in the corner. The figure had blonde hair, pulled back in an intricate bun, and was wearing a deep green dress.

It was Enjolras.

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire walked towards her, softly calling out her name so as to not startle Enjolras.

“Uh, Enjolras?” She asked, and the girl in question whipped around, eyes red from crying.

“Grantaire? W-what are you doing here?” She sniffed.

“I, uh, was going up to my room to change, and heard you crying.” Grantaire sat down next to Enjolras. “Is everything alright?”

Enjolras dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No, everything is _not_ alright.” She held up a small telegram. “My father was delayed in Europe, and was unable to make it today. I’m a young lady, I shouldn’t start _crying_ when there is a change in plans.”

“Oh, Enjolras, I’m so sorry,” Grantaire whispered. She took a chance, and reached out to take Enjolras’ hands in hers. “It’s not a ridiculous assumption for you to be sad at the thought of not seeing your father. I know he means a lot to you.”

“He doesn’t…it’s complicated,” Enjolras began, squeezing Grantaire’s hands.

“How so?”

“I didn’t just want to see him because I missed him. I also hoped, well, that maybe he would see _me_ in a different light?” She sighed, looking out the window at the setting sun. “He expects me to be this picture-perfect daughter, to maintain his name and status in society, but I’ve never been able to live up to his expectations. Even when I professed an interest in academics, and wanted to study history and Latin, he still expected me to fail? As if my goals were _still_ not enough to please him.”

As she finished speaking, tears were rolling down her cheeks once more, and Grantaire felt her heart breaking. Someone like Enjolras should never feel like she was not enough.

“I don’t see how any father could be anything but proud of you in every aspect of your life,” Grantaire said with conviction. “Ever since I’ve met you, I’ve been in awe of your aptitude, your grace, and your dreams. I don’t know your father, but if he doesn’t see that in you, he’s the foolish one.”

Enjolras looked back up at Grantaire with a watery smile. “Do you mean that?”

“At the very least, you’d make a proficient French teacher.” Even Enjolras had to laugh at that.

“Thank you,” she sniffed, running her thumb across Grantaire’s palm as she looked down at their linked hands. “Grantaire, you do have a way with words.”

“You think I have a way with words? I feel that your speeches could change history, Enjolras.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Grantaire thought Enjolras would move her face closer and their lips would touch. Instead, Enjolras leaned back and cleared her throat.

“Uh, dinner will be soon, you probably want time to change.” She said briskly, pulling her hands away and wiping her eyes once more.

Grantaire felt her heart plummet, and she stood up. “Of course, sorry to disturb you. I hope you feel better.”

As she turned to walk away, Enjolras put a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “I already do, thanks to you,” she said with a smile.

Perhaps all was not lost, Grantaire thought.

That evening, as Feuilly regaled their friends with stories of her time as a Polish noble, Enjolras mentioned that they would do well to hold another meeting after nightfall.

“With Prouvaire and Cosette?” Grantaire asked, nodding to the two younger girls.

“If they wish,” Enjolras said magnanimously. “I admit, it might be too cold this evening, with the frost in the air, but if we wear cloaks it won’t be too bad.”

“Actually,” Prouvaire said, speaking up for the first time at the table, “I might have a solution, if you would be interested?”

 

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As Prouvaire led them out the front door that evening, she directed them away from the forest, towards the chapel which stood apart from the castle itself.

“You can’t be serious,” Enjolras said, standing still in her tracks.

Prouvaire merely shrugged her shoulders and kept walking. “It’s a much better option than the forest, where Courfeyrac tells me you’ve been meeting. The Chaplin sleeps in the castle, and I happen to know where he hides the spare key. No one would dare disturb us here.”

They reached the door, and Prouvaire unearthed a large key from underneath a flowerpot next to the door. With a wink, she deftly unlocked the door and they all filed in, Enjolras last, still grumbling slightly.

“I fear this isn’t as safe as meeting in the forest.”

“Yet,” Combeferre spoke up, “there’s something to be said about the poetic nature of our reclamation of a space where women are seen as sinners and only men can achieve Priesthood.”

“Also,” Courfeyrac added, running her hands across the alter, “it’s below freezing outside, and at least in here we have a place to sit!”

Enjolras finally nodded, taking a seat in the front row of pews. “I suppose you’re right. Combeferre, you wanted to read something this evening?”

Combeferre pulled out a book, taking her seat next to Enjolras as the rest of them gathered around. Grantaire found herself on the floor between Feuilly and Prouvaire, with Joly on the pew next to Bossuet and Cosette and Courfeyrac leaning against the alter.

“I know Fantine has been focusing on women’s voices and women’s writings, but I thought we could be a bit more radical in our small group? I have a copy of the lectures Millicent Fawcett has been giving in London, and I thought we might read from them, to see what the suffragists have been discussing while we are at school.”

“Is this really to become a suffragist club?” Grantaire asked, unable to keep from sighing slightly. It wasn’t that she was against the efforts of giving women the vote, but she didn’t want to spend time with her friends reading from political essays.

“I think it’s a worthwhile endeavor, and I hope you all will engage with Fawcett’s words,” Enjolras said, nearly on cue.

“A bit of politics is alright,” Feuilly spoke up, resting her head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Right, Grantaire?”

Grantaire acquiesced, figuring it was better to indulge Enjolras—as if she would be able to resist, were Enjolras to try to _really_ convince her.

Instead of following that train of thought, Grantaire turned her attention to Combeferre’s soft voice, as she began to read.

“A woman is trained from her earliest infancy to believe that she has no interest in public affairs, and that her thoughts and occupations should be limited to the narrow circle of her own home. A clever lad who works hard in a country grammar school is often sent on by the means of exhibitions and scholarships to one of the universities. No such inducements to industry are held out to girls; indeed until the last few years’ higher education has been almost universally considered unnecessary for women. But how, it may be urged, could this be remedied by giving women votes? I reply, that if women had their representatives in parliament, care would be taken in readjusting the funds and working of endowed schools that girls should get their fair share.”

Grantaire watched as everyone sat in rapt attention, even Enjolras, who listened to her friend with a smile tugging at her lips. As Combeferre finished the passage, Enjolras spoke up. “You see? This is why we must focus on education and gaining suffrage. There are so many options for women in the world, and yet we are told it is not our place. That we should confine ourselves to the home, existing only to please our husbands.”

“Ugh, I agree, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, standing up and walking to where her friend sat. “I am, of course, in favor of all of your political activities, but particularly if they help me avoid a _terrible_ husband.” She put a hand over her forehead, striking a dramatic pose. “Can you imagine? Spending your days shut up in an old house, with no one but the servants for company, and then expected to please a filthy old man come nightfall? I’ll become a radical just to avoid that.”

“But men can’t be all that terrible, right?” Cosette broke in softly. “After all, it would be rather romantic to have a husband to love.”

“But a husband would require kissing a _man_ ,” Joly groaned, and Bossuet giggled. “Frankly, I don’t see the appeal.”

“You don’t see the _appeal_?” Courfeyrac gasped. “Why, my dear Jollllly,” she said, drawing out the consonants of Joly’s name. “A kiss, a _true_ kiss, not just a peck on the cheek, is absolutely _divine_.”

“How can you be so sure?” Feuilly asked, and Grantaire could see where the conversation was heading. Courfeyrac thrived in storytelling, and Grantaire had no doubt that her experience with kissing came with some fantastic tales.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Courfeyrac said, standing up from her seat next to Enjolras. “It all began at a Christmastide Ball my parents held last year. There was dancing, and laughing, and lots of drinking…” she winked. “I met a handsome gentleman named Solomon, who whisked me away for a waltz before we spent _two hours_ in the library, kissing!” Courfeyrac’s arms swung around, as if trying to visualize her emotions during the kiss. “His lips, so soft! Yet with the tickle of his beard, and his hands upon my waist, oh!” She fell back down onto the pew, landing across Enjolras and Combeferre’s laps. “I implore you all to try it someday.”

“I feel as if we’re getting off-track,” Enjolras muttered, but no one paid her any attention.

“Courfeyrac!” Prouvaire exclaimed, “How are we supposed to find a man to kiss?”

“The holidays are coming up,” Courfeyrac said, “and I assume we shall all be dancing the night away trying to meet our future husband! However,” she looked around at all of them, her face lighting up with a mischievous smile. “I do have an idea.”

“Wait—“ Enjolras attempted again, but Courfeyrac continued.

“Since we’re here to learn skills, or create the future we wish to see, and all that, how about we practice kissing! I will say, I’ve often found more enjoyment in kissing women than men.” With that, she turned around and pressed her lips firmly to Combeferre’s, her hands resting on the other girls’ shoulders.

There were shrieks and giggles abound, but Grantaire watched Combeferre lean into the kiss for half a second before pulling back, her face red. “Courf, please,” she said, pushing Courfeyrac off of her lap.

“No matter!” Courfeyrac bounced back immediately, and had Grantaire not been watching closely, she wouldn’t have noticed the slight frown that passed over her face. “Who will be next?”

Everyone giggled and Grantaire watched as Joly and Bossuet shared a peck, and Cosette pressed a soft kiss to Feuilly’s cheek. Grantaire found herself surrounded by cheerful girls, apparently at ease with their ability to be so affectionate amongst one another.

A little voice in her head, though, pushed doubt to the forefront. Perhaps all of this was in jest; perhaps Joly and Bossuet could share a kiss because they knew it was a joke, because they knew that one day both of them would marry dashing men whom they would grow to love. They didn’t have to worry about falling in love with another woman, so these kisses were nothing more than a sign of friendship.

But had the moment between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, was that friendship as well? Or was Courfeyrac’s quip about kissing women a sign of something more? Grantaire felt more lost than ever.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac cried, her cheeks flushed. “It’s your turn. Who will you kiss?”

“I’m not kissing anyone,” Enjolras said flatly, crossing her arms.

“You _must_ kiss someone,” Courfeyrac said, pulling Enjolras to her feet and spinning her around. “If you don’t I think I shall _die_. Would you like to have my death on your hands?”

Grantaire waited for Enjolras’ rebuttal, but it never came. Instead, she sighed and consented. “Fine, but I’ll only kiss one person, and if she will not participate neither will I.”

“Very well,” Courfeyrac agreed, “which one of us?”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire felt her eyes widen as everyone turned to look at her. What conversation had been overlapping with Enjolras faded away, and Grantaire felt her mouth fall open.

“Me?” She wondered if she had misheard Enjolras.

“Yes. If you are amenable, I will kiss you. But if not, I say we put a stop to this ridiculous exercise and continue to read. Fawcett’s arguments on—“

“Enjolras, this is not the time for politics!” Courfeyrac said quickly. She turned her wide, brown eyes on Grantaire. “Do you agree?”

Grantaire found that the words were unable to form on her tongue, so she nodded instead. Enjolras seemed to find that a satisfactory answer, and walked over to where Grantaire was sitting, putting out her hand to pull Grantaire to her feet.

“Is this alright?” She asked again as their faces grew closer together. Grantaire was reminded of the moment in the library which had passed like a flower in the wind. This moment, it seemed, was here to stay. She nodded again, and Enjolras closed the gap between them.

The kiss was perfect, that was all Grantaire would remember. It was soft, and Enjolras’ lips were warm, and her hands gently brushed against Grantaire’s neck as Grantaire attempted to do more than act a marble statue. She pressed back, smiling as Enjolras inhaled sharply.

After what felt like eternity, but could not have been more than ten seconds, Enjolras pulled back, her eyes confused and—was that fear? Grantaire could not be certain, but it was gone in an instant as Enjolras turned back to Courfeyrac.

“Was that satisfactory? May we return to the lectures?” She said, her voice sharp and unyielding.

Courfeyrac looked back and forth between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, eyes wide. “Oh, of course. Um, is everything alright?”

“Of course.” Enjolras snapped. “Combeferre, will you?” She took her seat next to Combeferre, not looking in Grantaire’s direction for the rest of the evening.

Grantaire, for her part, sat down next to Feuilly, hands shaking.

“Are you alright?” Feuilly whispered as Combeferre began to read.

Grantaire shook her head, but did not speak. She wasn’t sure what words would come to her, or if she wouldn’t just start crying were she to open her mouth. It was better to sit in silence, in the cold of the stone chapel, and listen to Combeferre’s dulcet tones speak of a woman’s revolution.

 

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Grantaire did her upmost to not think about that night. The group still met in the chapel, at least one evening per week, but there were no more awkward moments or soft kisses. They read political pamphlets, discussed opportunities for reform in London, and dreamed of future jobs they all wished to hold. Prouvaire wanted to go to university, Bossuet wished to try her hand at law school, and Enjolras dreamed of a job in politics.

Sometimes, they would ask Grantaire what her plans were for the future.

“I don’t really have any,” she would answer. “I mean, I’d prefer not to get married, but I’m not sure how that will work out.”

“Surely you must have _some_ dream,” Enjolras would press.

“Not really,” Grantaire would reply. _At least, none that I can achieve_.

Whatever her feelings towards Enjolras were, they weren’t a goal, or even a dream. It was just a thought that Grantaire would drift towards as she was lying in bed at night, or when French lessons became too much. Grantaire classified it in the same vein as dreaming of a flying horse, or becoming a pirate; escapist fantasies, nothing more.

Sometimes, though, it felt real. During the meetings, when Enjolras would speak with relish about her plans to change the House of Commons, her dreams to be the first female Member of Parliament, and to lead the charge for suffrage, Grantaire would let her mind wander to images of Enjolras, dressed in a waistcoat and tails, her long hair tucked under a top hat, arguing furiously in a smoky room full of men. Grantaire thought Enjolras would make a gallant politician, dressed as a man or a woman.

That thought made her pause. “Enjolras,” she spoke up as the conversation continued around them. “Have you ever considered playing the part of a man, and running for office now?”

Enjolras gave her a shrewd look, but didn’t immediately shut her down. “I must say, I haven’t considered that.” She looked down at her dress, pulling the skirt up around her knees. “Although, it would be a blessing to get rid of these petticoats.”

“Enjolras in a suit?” Courfeyrac piped up, disentangling herself from where she was draped across Prouvaire’s lap. “Darling you would make a _dashing_ gentleman.”

“It wouldn’t be about that, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said patiently.

“Of course not! But I don’t doubt that women would practically swoon as you walked down the streets of Westminster!” She turned to Grantaire, and Grantaire felt a sense of foreboding in her stomach. “Don’t you agree, Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s breath caught in her throat, but she quickly cleared it. “I have no doubt Enjolras would make a respectable man, but I merely brought up the idea that the men of Parliament might be more convinced of a woman’s prowess were they not concerned with how her dress would fit in the benches.” There. A respectable answer that didn’t betray too much emotion.

Apparently, it didn’t satisfy Enjolras. “You assume they would be more likely to take me seriously dressed as a man? That seems rather regressive.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I only thought it might be a solution which would get you elected,” Grantaire replied, wondering if it was as offensive as Enjolras made it out to be.

“I feel it would be all the more powerful for a woman to win an election as a _representation_ of femininity, rather than proving herself to be as masculine as possible.”

“But,” Grantaire felt herself smile. “Couldn’t you argue that the dresses and femininity we value so highly in a woman is only there for the consumption of men? Why do we wear corsets and bustles? We wear them to look appealing to men. By dressing as a man, couldn’t it be claimed that you’re playing their game, and winning?”

Grantaire watched as, perhaps for the first time she had seen, Enjolras was speechless. “I suppose…you’re right, Grantaire.”

“Did that just happen?” Feuilly whispered, nudging Grantaire in her side.

“In fact,” Enjolras continued, “this gives me an idea for something we can do here at Prentiss. Why are we forced to wear corsets under our gowns? For the consumption of our bodies by men? We’re at a school for women, and Le Gros and Myriel are the only men who see us.” As she spoke, Enjolras unbuttoned her bodice and threw it aside, standing in the middle of the chapel wearing her skirt and undergarments. “I challenge each of you to go without your corset, beginning tomorrow. Combeferre, will you assist me?”

Combeferre jumped to her feet, and began unlacing the back of Enjolras’ corset. Grantaire’s breath began to quicken; it was the evening by the river all over again.

“Thank you, Combeferre,” Enjolras said once her corset was removed. She proceeded to put her bodice back on, and Grantaire watched as her figure which used to fit the tightly-wound mold of the corset was now filling out her dress, softness around her hips and waist accentuated in comparison to Combeferre’s still-corseted frame. Enjolras sighed with relief. “Grantaire, this is a movement we can start here at Prentiss, thank you for that.” She smiled at Grantaire, who coughed.

“This is not what I meant, but you’re welcome. Corsets are one thing,” she mused, “but imagine what the headmistress would say if you showed up to class in a pair of trousers.”

The glint in Enjolras’ eyes gave her away, and Grantaire groaned. “I didn’t mean that, Enjolras. Please don’t try anything.”

Of course, Enjolras did not listen to Grantaire. The next morning, Grantaire and Feuilly both went down to breakfast without their corsets, and Grantaire had to agree with Enjolras. The school uniforms were much more comfortable without whalebone poking into her side. At their regular table, Grantaire noticed that none of the other girls were wearing their corsets either, and she smiled.

“Well, don’t we look a tawdry group of women with no morals!” She cried, sitting next to Courfeyrac.

“Oh, you haven’t seen the half of it,” Courfeyrac muttered. “Wait until you see what _she’s_ wearing today.”

Grantaire could only assume she meant Enjolras, and she turned to where Courfeyrac was looking. At the front of the room stood Enjolras, surrounded by the headmistress, Mabeuf the housekeeper, and a few of the professors. Enjolras stood tall, her hair perfectly coiffed as always, but that is not what drew Grantaire’s attention. For, instead of her normal uniform, Enjolras wore a pair of workmen’s trousers, buttoned at her waist. She still wore the usual bodice of their outfit, but the trousers lengthened her legs and gave her waist curves that Grantaire was only used to seeing on men. She looked stunning.

“Where on _earth_ was she able to acquire a pair of trousers?” Grantaire asked in delight.

Joly spoke up, a wide smile on her face. “I noticed in my wardrobe that I still had a pair of trousers from that year we performed a section of _Tartuffe_ in Fantine’s class and I played Valere. They don’t fit her as well as I hoped, but I still think she makes a striking statement.”

“Joly, you are a goddess,” Grantaire breathed, unconcerned with what her friends would think of her response. Enjolras was walking back towards them, a frown on her face, and Grantaire was transfixed.

“Are they making you change into a skirt?” Cosette asked as Enjolras sat back down, swinging her legs over the bench with ease.

“No, I convinced them that by wearing the bodice I am still following regulations of the school.” Enjolras glanced back up at the headmistress, who was looking down her nose at their table. “But I doubt she was happy with that response. I expect she will telegram my father, assuming he will roundly condemn me himself.” She scoffed. “She, of course, does not know how little he cares about me. Perhaps this will draw his attention, if I begin to live in trousers and waistcoats!”

“I appreciate your devotion to giving the administration a headache,” Combeferre said, “but this does defeat the purpose of us going without corsets. All anyone will be speaking of is the girl in trousers.”

“This is just the first step, Combeferre,” Enjolras said with passion. “We are going to make some changes around Prentiss, and I have no doubt that after the holidays we will all be without corsets.”

“Oh, this is part of your grand plan?” Grantaire asked, working through the possibilities in her head. “You agree to wear a skirt once more, but only if we are all allowed to go without corsets for the remainder of the year.”

Enjolras’ grin was blinding. “Exactly! Although,” she stood up once more and twirled in a circle. “I do fancy these trousers. Men are spoiled to be able to run so easily!”

Grantaire felt her throat go dry, but chose not to speak any more. Opening her mouth is what caused this latest crusade, because apparently Enjolras took her criticisms seriously now. Were she to suggest anything else, Grantaire had no doubt Enjolras might suddenly choose to cut her hair or run away with a travelling circus.

The rest of the day was spent with Enjolras as the center of attention in each class. That itself was not unusual, but her impassioned speech in fluent French about the inequality of women’s clothing, sticking her legs out in history much to Myriel’s displeasure, and the interest of the younger girls in her outfit during the study period made the day stand out. Grantaire followed her around with interest, accepting the interruptions during their French lessons as ten year old girls came by to ask Enjolras why she would choose to wear trousers, of all things.

During art, Fantine giggled and applauded Enjolras’ statement. “You truly are out to change the world, Miss Enjolras,” she commented. “In fact, for today’s assignment, I challenge you to follow in Enjolras’ footsteps and create something which defies the norm.”

This was the best chance Grantaire felt she was going to get, so she pulled out a clean piece of paper and began to sketch an outline of Enjolras’s figure, putting her in full tails, just as Grantaire had imagined.

Fantine continued to read aloud—they had begun to read from Pizan’s _Book of the City of Ladies,_ which Grantaire found fascinating—and Grantaire began to add details to her sketch. A red cravat on Enjolras’ neck, faceless men surrounding her, a stern brow under the top hat. By the end of the class, her sketch was half-finished, and Grantaire placed it aside to be continued the next day.

“Is that me?” came a voice from behind her, and she turned to see Enjolras staring at the paper.

“Oh, uh, I guess,” Grantaire said awkwardly. “I just, with Fantine’s suggestion, thought I might sketch something for your future political career.”

Enjolras smiled as she looked over the sketch intently. “It’s beautiful, Grantaire. When you’re finished, may I have it?”

Grantaire was shocked. “Oh, it’s just a sketch.”

“I think it’s beautiful.”

“Very well, it’s yours.”

Enjolras smiled and walked away, leaving Grantaire with a half finished drawing and a heart beating wildly.

 

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The rest of the term passed with few interruptions. Enjolras’ crusade against corsets, or, as Courfeyrac had taken to calling it, the ‘whalebone conspiracy,’ was a success, and soon the headmistress was much more lenient on the requirement, as long as Enjolras didn’t walk into class wearing trousers. Sometimes, at their nightly meetings, Enjolras would still show up in trousers and a waistcoat Bossuet had procured, pulling her hair into a tight bun and looking for all the world a young man surrounded by women. On evenings like that, Enjolras would dance with them and act a man, racing Courfeyrac up and down the aisles and laughing loudly. Grantaire had never seen her so carefree as when she wore the trousers, and she wondered what it meant for their future.

Far too soon, it felt, the holidays approached, and Grantaire had to say goodbye to her friends to spend two weeks in the dreary London home Alphonse shared with their father. She knew there were parties to go to and people to meet, but after the excitement of the term, Grantaire had no interest in London society. Furthermore, she didn’t know if any of her friends would be attending the same party, and if she had to spend two weeks tittering with young women about clothing and men, Grantaire would lose her mind.

It didn’t help that, as she noticed when she stepped into the dark townhouse, her father wasn’t doing well at all. The house itself felt ill, with servants and nurses bustling around, everyone whispering all of the time. Grantaire rarely saw Alphonse, who spent his days doing god knows what, but she never saw her father. It was, of course, for the best, but Grantaire couldn’t help but feel lonely, locking herself in the library and reading books Enjolras had suggested to further Grantaire’s knowledge of politics.

Grantaire was lucky Alphonse had only promised her to appear at a few of the many parties which were being held by the London high society. The first, a dance held by the Marquess of Queensbury, fell on a dreary Tuesday evening that had Grantaire nearly refusing to get out of bed. Eventually, she relented and allowed one of the ladies maids to dress her in a tight corset and green silk gown, grumbling throughout the process. As her hair was pulled every which way into an elaborate plait, Grantaire thought back to Enjolras’ words about dressing up for male consumption, and she wondered what the blonde would think about Grantaire going to a ball like this. Would she be disappointed? Would she think Grantaire looked nice? Grantaire hissed as her hair was tugged in a particular way, and let her thoughts drift to how lovely Enjolras’ face looked when she blushed.

As she and Alphonse arrived, Grantaire was shocked by the display of wealth around her. Growing up in Calcutta, Grantaire knew she was wealthy and that her family was of means, but there was less decadence around. But here, in the ballroom of the Queensbury house, crystals dripped from chandeliers, paintings in gilded frames lined the walls, and it seemed that there was enough food to feed a small country.

Without even noticing where Alphonse had gone, Grantaire found herself alone in the middle of a sea of chattering and flirting. She quickly slipped away, finding an empty corner partially hidden by a large bouquet of poinsettias, preparing to watch the festivities while avoiding speaking to anyone.

She watched a particularly striking couple dancing a quadrille, the girl wearing a soft pink gown which offset her bronze skin and the man in a dashing green coat, his body long and lithe. They moved through the steps with an easy grace, and Grantaire was almost jealous of their obvious interest in each other, until she remembered how annoying it was to talk with men. The girl looked over at her, and Grantaire didn’t turn her gaze away fast enough, as the two soon made their way over to Grantaire’s little corner.

“Pardon me,” the girl said with a smile, but do I know you?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Grantaire replied, “I’ve only recently returned to London.”

“Shame, you look an interesting character and it would have been exciting to have met you before,” she replied with a wink. “No matter. My name is Eponine du Thenard, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She gave a deep curtsey, and Grantaire responded in kind.

“Adelaide de Grantaire, although I prefer to just be called Grantaire.” She turned to the gentleman at Eponine’s side. “And you, Monsieur?”

The man smiled and bowed. “Just call me Bahorel,” he said, voice high-pitched and feminine.

Grantaire did a double take. She looked at his figure, noticed the fabric of his waistcoat pulled across his chest and his unshaven face. “Wait, are you?”

“ _Lady_ Bahorel and I find these dances far too tiresome on their own, so we like to have a bit of fun every once in a while,” Eponine clarified.

“Also,” Bahorel said, leaning into Grantaire, “have you ever noticed how cumbersome skirts can be? The freedom of a trouser, my friend.”

Grantaire let out a loud laugh. Of course, the two people she would meet at the first ball of the season would fit in perfectly with the girls at Prentiss. “Well, it is my honor, Lady Bahorel, to meet such a handsome woman.”

Bahorel smiled and pulled her hair down so it fell around her face, cropped shorter than Grantaire’s, but still long enough to look ladylike. “Eponine saw you watching us, and we assumed you had figured out our little game, but I can now see we were mistaken.”

“No, I was just bored and you two seemed the most interesting of the dancers out there,” Grantaire replied, smiling.

“Well, then, Grantaire, might you be willing to share a dance with me? Eponine wanted a break anyway, and I do hope you won’t get too bored this evening!” Bahorel held out her hand, and Grantaire took it graciously, letting the taller woman lead her into the room.

The string quartet began to play a smooth waltz, and Grantaire felt Bahorel’s hand on her waist as she whisked her away, effortlessly weaving through other couples, her hair flying around her face.

“Bahorel, might I ask,” Grantaire began as their pace slowed down. “Do you dress as a man all of the time?”

Bahorel laughed. “No, unfortunately. I play the part of daughter to the Duke of Marlborough, but he always complained about my affinity for athletics and books, and doesn’t spend much time worrying about me anyways. Some days, I think he’d rather I be his son, so I almost feel I have his blessing. Why do you ask?”

“There’s this girl I know, at school, who I feel might share your affinity.” Grantaire went on to explain the excitement of the last few weeks of term, and Enjolras’ dreams of politics.

“I feel like this Enjolras and I would get on quite well!” Bahorel said, twirling Grantaire into her arms. “She sounds like a fine woman. Do you care for her?”

“Care for her?” Grantaire asked, tripping over Bahorel’s foot. “What do you mean by that?”

Bahorel looked nervous for a moment, but continued. “Well, care for her in the way men and women love each other.” She looked over at Eponine. “One of the reasons I do this masquerade is so Eponine and I can be seen in public together, without drawing attention to the nature of our relationship.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “You mean—“

“Yes, for a few years now. She won’t marry me, not least because no priest in his right mind would marry two women, but I think she cares for me still.” Her face had a dreamy smile, and she sighed.

Grantaire was shocked. Two women, living as openly as Grantaire could imagine, in the middle of London?

“But how…how did you _know_ that you felt this way?” Grantaire asked, trying to organize the thoughts in her head. All of her feelings regarding Enjolras had been purposefully vague, and she had never felt like there could be a possibility of a future between the two of them. Yet here she was, faced with Bahorel and Eponine, who seemed to have succeeded.

“Well, I first figured it out when my father began to introduce me to eligible suitors and I found no interest in them, preferring to sit with Eponine or one of my other friends. Of course, one might argue that the goal is to learn to love a man over time, which would be preferred to the short bursts of lust one might feel with another woman, but I never thought that to be preferable.” Bahorel stopped dancing, and Grantaire found herself looking directly into Bahorel’s deep eyes. “Listen to me, Grantaire. Think about your feelings, don’t think about the world around you. When do you feel the most kind, the most loving, and the most yourself?”

“But, I mean, I’m not—“ Grantaire spluttered. “Women are supposed to love men, aren’t they?”

“There’s always another option,” Bahorel said softly, walking them back over to Eponine, her hand firm on Grantaire’s back. “I just want you to know that. No matter what people tell you, women do not have to be with men.”

Eponine smiled, and pressed a kiss to Bahorel’s lips. Grantaire was impressed with the openness of their affections towards each other, and part of her yearned to feel that comfortable with someone.

“Was Bahorel droning on about love, of all things?” Eponine asked, handing Grantaire a glass of wine. “She has always been a romantic.”

“Oh, you act as if it’s a trial when I compose sonnets in your honor!” Bahorel laughed.

“Her sonnets are absolutely terrible,” Eponine whispered in Grantaire’s ear, as Bahorel squawked indignantly.

Grantaire took a sip of her wine and watched the banter with a sad smile on her face. She could only imagine what life would be like if Enjolras loved her so. Of course, it did not do to dwell on the impossible; Grantaire wasn’t even sure that Enjolras felt that way about women in general, let alone Grantaire specifically.

She thought about what Bahorel had said, about when she felt most at peace with herself. She thought about what it would mean to take a husband one day, to pretend to laugh at his jokes, make him dinner, and eventually go to bed with him; Grantaire recoiled at the thought. But those same things with a woman? Or, in her wildest dreams, with Enjolras? Grantaire found herself smiling at the thought. Debating politics with Enjolras over dinner, quietly reading together in the library, practicing their French as they go on walks through the park. It sounded like heaven.

Far too soon, the Queensbury party drew to a close, and Alphonse came to collect her.

“Did you have a nice time?” He asked as the carriage rumbled through the dark London streets.

“Oh, I had a marvelous time,” Grantaire said with a smile.

“I saw you dancing with a young man, might you have found a suitor?” Alphonse clearly wasn’t paying attention to her, distracted by the window.

“Unfortunately he was already betrothed to another woman, but I have no doubt we will stay in touch,” Grantaire replied, thinking of how lovely it would be to see Eponine and Bahorel once more.

Alphonse hummed, but didn’t speak any more, and Grantaire was grateful. She thought about the warmth and laughter of her two new friends, and the joy with which they loved each other, and hoped that she would have that one day as well.

 

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The rest of her holidays were dull. Two other balls which didn’t have the excitement of the first, and no other interesting parties aside from a brief interlude with Baron Marius Pontmercy, who danced a waltz with Grantaire and asked after Cosette. Aside from that, though, Grantaire was alone, and she could not wait to return to Prentiss.

Upon her arrival, Grantaire was greeted with warm hugs from Feuilly and Joly, the first two to return. As Joly regaled Grantaire and Feuilly with stories of the ridiculous parties she had been made to attend, Grantaire wondered what her friends would think of Eponine and Bahorel’s arrangement. Would they be put off by the relationship? Or would they see it as something natural?

Rather than find out, and risk alienating her closest friends, Grantaire decided to keep it a secret. At lest for now, at least until she figured out what it all meant. Instead, she laughed with Feuilly at Joly’s antics, pressing kisses to Bossuet and Prouvaire’s cheeks as they sat down as well, taking up their usual corner in the great hall. The air was warm and cheerful, and Grantaire felt as if she was truly home.

The mood was broken, however, as a sullen Courfeyrac approached, flanked by Enjolras and Combeferre who both looked murderous.

“Is everything alright?” Grantaire asked as the conversation died down around them. She looked to Courfeyrac, who would usually have a witty retort or a smile, but the girl only frowned and looked down at her feet.

“Courfeyrac, would you rather I explain?” Enjolras said after a beat, resting a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“No,” Courfeyrac replied, taking a deep breath. She looked up, a sort of resignation in her eyes. “I am engaged to be wed.”

There were gasps all around, and Grantaire felt her brow furrow. “Were you courting anyone?”

“No, my parents announced it at our annual ball. I’m engaged to Duke Felix Tholomeyes, and will be wed next summer.” Courfeyrac sat down with a huff, putting her head in her hands.

Grantaire had never seen the normally bright and cheerful girl so dismayed. She watched as Combeferre gently put her arms around Courfeyrac, the shorter girl leaning into her friend’s embrace.

“Tholomeyes?” Bossuet piped up. “Isn’t he rather old?”

“Rather old,” Combeferre scoffed, “the man is nearly forty!”

“Well then why would your parents force you to marry him?” Joly asked.

This time, it was Enjolras who spoke up. “It’s a delicate situation—“

“It’s not _delicate_ ,” Courfeyrac snapped, lifting her head up. “I’m not _ashamed_ , no matter what my parents say. I have a fainting disorder, and my parents worry that no husband in his right mind would want a sick wife; when Tholomeyes proposed, they immediately accepted.”

“Courfeyrac,” Prouvaire said softly, “that’s terrible.”

Grantaire watched as Courfeyrac wiped a tear from her eye and gave a laugh. “They told me,” her voice broke. “They told me no one would want to marry a sick girl, and that I should be happy even _one_ man has offered his hand to me.”

“Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Grantaire asked, feeling helpless. Courfeyrac had always been so joyful, so excited about her future, and yet here she was, seemingly broken by the word of one man. Grantaire turned to Enjolras. “Can’t you make this one of your causes? There must be some way to fix this.”

Enjolras just sighed, and for the first time that evening, Grantaire noticed the lines around her eyes. “I don’t know what power we would have against Lord and Lady Courfeyrac—“

“But aren’t you upset about this? It’s your best friend, Enjolras.” Grantaire was tired of practicalities, tired of society, and she wanted Enjolras to show some _emotion_. She knew she was goading her, but she couldn’t help it. She felt powerless, but if there was one thing she could count on, it was her ability to rile Enjolras up.

“Of course I’m upset, Grantaire!” Enjolras finally broke, her eyes like daggers on Grantaire. “But what would you have me do? Go down to London and try to _reason_ with them? Don’t you think Courfeyrac has tried? We’ve been trying to come up with a solution over the entire holiday, and yet you act as if I’ve barely considered it!”

“So are you giving up?” Grantaire continued, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from Feuilly.

“I would never give up on my _friends_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras said coldly.

Grantaire was about to retort when Courfeyrac spoke up, wiping her face once more. “Ladies, can we please not fight right now? I’d rather not think about this for the time being.”

“Courfeyrac, I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, looking down at her dress.

“Me too,” Enjolras said, rubbing Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “What shall we discuss instead? I hear Prouvaire had an exciting time at the Blenheim event?”

Prouvaire laughed and launched into a tale which, from what Grantaire garnered, involved the Duchess of Argyll, a sensible amount of rum, and three silk gowns. Instead of paying attention, Grantaire got to her feet and walked over to where Enjolras was sitting, dropping down so her shoulder was flush with Enjolras.

“Listen,” she said in a low voice, trying not to disrupt Prouvaire’s antics. “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Enjolras sighed, but gave her a small smile. “I forgive you.”

“I just…I felt so _helpless_ , hearing about Courfeyrac.”

“Don’t you think I feel that too?” Enjolras asked, nudging Grantaire’s shoulder with her own. “You were right. I have so many dreams for the future, for gender equality and suffrage and the future of womankind, but I can’t even protect my friend from being stuck in a marriage she hates?” Enjolras was silent for a beat. “And yet, I don’t know how to solve this. I’ve thought about it _constantly_ , and I can’t figure out how to fix it for her.”

Grantaire felt terrible. She had assumed Enjolras considered this problem below her, and yet it was causing her such stress. “I truly am sorry, in that case.”

“Sometimes,” Enjolras began, letting her head rest on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire ignored how her heart sped up at the casual touch. “Sometimes I wonder what the use is.”

“The use?” Grantaire asked quietly, trying not to disrupt Enjolras’ head as she spoke. She didn’t want to ruin the calm which had settled over the two of them.

“The use of all our politics. What are we, except for a group of wealthy young women at a school where no one takes us seriously anyway? All of our reading, these meetings, all of it. What’s the point, if we can’t make actual change?” Enjolras sighed. “I’m just not sure…not sure how _much_ we can make an impact.”

Grantaire felt her heart break a bit. When she had first met Enjolras, mere months ago, she had thought the girl an avenging angel, out to save the world. Apparently, even angels had doubts and fears. The idea that she could have contributed to Enjolras’ doubts hurt her more than she could explain.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, trying to put her swirling emotions into words, “it _does_ matter. After all, you’ve seen changes truly happen even here at Prentiss. Changes to the course schedule, to the uniforms, it’s all because of you.”

“That’s all on a small scale—“

“No, that’s just the beginning,” Grantaire pressed. “You’re seventeen, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I have no doubt that you’ll figure out an escape plan for Courfeyrac, and find a way to let women serve in Parliament, probably becoming Prime Minster yourself before you marry.” Grantaire let out a small laugh. “If anyone could do it, it’s you.”

Enjolras reached her hand down, taking Grantaire’s and holding it tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, “I hope you’re right.” For a moment, she looked as if she was going to say something more, but she closed her mouth and let her head drop back down onto Grantaire’s shoulder.

Grantaire let the conversation end, drawing her attention back to the group. For the rest of the evening, Enjolras leaned against Grantaire, only being jostled if Courfeyrac grabbed her arm to emphasize her point on the reasons there was _definitely_ a pack of wolves who lived in the forest near Prentiss.

As their shouldered brushed, and Enjolras’ soft blonde curls tickled Grantaire’s throat, she was once again reminded of the soft intimacy she craved so much. Would it even be a possibility? To voice those thoughts to Enjolras—or to any of her friends.

As she and Feuilly got ready for bed that evening, Grantaire steeled her nerves and turned to Feuilly, just as the girl was putting on her nightgown.

“Feuilly,” she asked softly, pulling her legs up onto her bed, “do you think—“

“Hm?” Feuilly turned around, and something in the expression on Grantaire’s face must have made her realize the seriousness of this conversation, because she put down her hairbrush and went to sit next to Grantaire. “Is everything alright? Is this about the fight today?”

“No,” Grantaire said, looking down. “I just…do you think it’s evil, for a girl to fall in love with another girl?”

Feuilly was silent for a moment, and Grantaire was terrified. Would this be the moment she lost her best friend? Would Feuilly decide that she no longer wanted to share a room with someone like Grantaire?

“Grantaire,” Feuilly began, “I don’t think there’s anything bad about love. Haven’t you been listening to what Enjolras has been saying these past few months?” She turned and ran her fingers through Grantaire’s loose hair, with Grantaire leaning into the comfort. “The only evil thing is the society we live in. It makes the rules, and those rules ignore the kind of beauty which can exist in all forms of love.”

Feuilly’s voice, her words, and her fingers in Grantaire’s hair made her exhale in relief. “You really believe that?”

“Of course I do, and I think everyone in our group would say the same. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Grantaire shook her head. “No, of course not. It was just something that was on my mind.”

“Of course. Want me to braid your hair before bed?” Feuilly asked, and Grantaire was grateful for the change in subject. She nodded, and let herself be distracted by the calming and methodical movements of Feuilly’s fingers.

 

+-+-+--

 

Classes began again, as did Grantaire’s French lessons. Of course, they practiced French, and Grantaire could feel herself gaining a better grip of the language, but Grantaire also found herself learning little facts about Enjolras that made the girl all the more interesting.

She learned that Enjolras absolutely adored strawberries, but wasn’t too fond of tea, that her favorite color was yellow, that she loved the summertime, and that she was fascinated by Descartes. Grantaire didn’t know who Descartes was, but from the way Enjolras talked about him, Grantaire found herself interested in political theory for the first time in her life.

“Have you read any of Mr. Mill’s works?” Enjolras asked her one afternoon as Grantaire tried and failed to conjugate pluperfect verbs once again.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire laughed, “when will you realize that I have read nothing, particularly in the realm of politics.”

“Oh, but you _must_ read Mr. Mill’s work on women’s rights. Why, just a few years ago, he was a _man_ calling for women’s suffrage! I remember my mother reading about it in the paper, don’t you?”

“I was in India, Enjolras, I didn’t follow English news closely.” Grantaire gave up on the French in front of her and turned her full attention to Enjolras, who was grinning. “Go on,” she said, “tell me what Mr. Mill said about women’s suffrage.”

Enjolras launched into one of her speeches, and Grantaire was once again struck by her intelligence and passion. Enjolras in the political arena, giving speeches to Parliament and campaigning on her values would be a sight to see.

“Don’t you _see_?” Enjolras said breathlessly, all thought of French forgotten. “Mr. Mill argued that women throughout history had been subjugated by men, and that we did not cause our own secondary status! If one man can believe that argument, there must be others who will join our fight for suffrage.”

“Ah, and do you expect your future husband to be one of these men?” Grantaire asked jokingly.

That gave Enjolras a pause, and Grantaire watched as Enjolras nervously bit her lip. “Actually,” she said softly, “I’ve been giving that some thought. What if…what if I don’t _want_ a husband? Or to marry at all?”

Grantaire felt her breath quicken. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Enjolras mused, “and I don’t think I would ever be happy married to a man. I just…” She sat up straighter. “Have you ever thought about attraction?”

“Attraction?”

“Yes, as in, the qualities you are attracted to in another person. Like their smile, or the way they laugh.”

Grantaire tried to think if there was something distinct about the way she laughed. “Yes, I’ve considered it. Are you worried you might marry a man you aren’t attracted to?”

“No, I,” Enjolras’ voice got softer, and Grantaire had to lean in to hear her speak. “I think I might not be attracted to men at all. Do you understand that?”

Grantaire locked eyes with Enjolras, trying to convey meaning she was still too nervous to speak out loud. “I think…I do understand that, Enjolras,” she said in a whisper.

“Do you?” Enjolras pressed, putting her hand on Grantaire’s knee.

So this was happening. Grantaire hadn’t been misreading the signs, and perhaps her dreams were drifting closer to reality. She leaned forward, slow enough that Enjolras would have time to move away were she thrown off by Grantaire’s advances. Instead, Enjolras met her halfway, and their lips pressed together, soft and chaste. Grantaire was reminded of the last time they kissed, but this time, there was _intent_. Grantaire rested her hands on top of Enjolras’ and opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, smiling slightly when Enjolras gasped. After a moment which felt like eternity, they broke apart.

“I take it you would prefer the touch of a woman over that of a man?” Grantaire asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I think I would prefer _your_ touch over the touch of any man,” Enjolras responded, her voice still breathy.

Grantaire blushed. “Uh, I think I would prefer that as well.” She hoped the grin on her face wasn’t too wide, but at this point it couldn’t be helped.

Enjolras twisted her hands around so they covered both of Grantaire’s. “Truly?” She asked again. “I don’t want you to misunderstand. I want…er, I’m _hoping_ , rather, that you would be amenable to a courtship, of sorts? I know we might not be able to marry, but—“

“Enjolras, of _course_ I would like to court you, or spend my life with you, in any way,” Grantaire interrupted, unable to help herself. “I’ve been infatuated with you all term, and a courtship with you would be preferable to _any_ man on earth.”

Enjolras grinned, and Grantaire felt her hands tighten around Grantaire’s. “I care about you as well. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, and I certainly didn’t expect you to feel the same, but then Combeferre suggested I bring it up to you. It seems she understood something I didn’t.”

“Well, thank goodness for Combeferre,” Grantaire replied, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. “Is this alright?” She asked, just to make sure.

Enjolras responded by turning her head slightly and meeting Grantaire’s lips again. Grantaire’s heart soared, and she leaned into the kiss, hands drifting from Enjolras’ grip to the sides of her waist. Grantaire had never felt like that before, and the heat coiling in her stomach was new as well.

Just as Enjolras’ tongue found its way into Grantaire’s mouth, however, there was the sound of a door opening behind them, and the two jumped apart. Grantaire quickly wiped her mouth, and Enjolras tried to straighten her dress, her cheeks flaming red.

“Now, what do we have _here_?” Came Courfeyrac’s voice as she rounded the corner to their small section of the library. “Why, have you two been studying at all?”

Grantaire saw the tension melt out of Enjolras’ shoulders as she smiled at her friend. “Courfeyrac, thank goodness. What did you need?”

Courfeyrac smiled wide, and continued to look between Enjolras and Grantaire with a knowing look in her eyes. “Oh nothing,” she hummed. “Art will be starting soon, and I thought you two might be, ahem, _preoccupied_ and time would escape you. I think I was correct in my assumptions, right Grantaire?”

“I, uh,” Grantaire spluttered, unable to come up with a convincing reason why she couldn’t control her beating heart.

“Grantaire, there’s no need to worry,” Enjolras placated, taking Grantaire’s hand in her own again. “Courfeyrac has been trying to convince me to speak to you on this subject for weeks, now. I have no doubt she wanted to catch us in the act, to see if I had listened to her.”

“And you did!” Courfeyrac broke in. “Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to see two people in love. Grantaire, it’s been absolutely _agonizing_ watching you two over term. I’m so glad we can all—“

“Wait, _we_?” Grantaire asked, feeling nervous. How many people were going to know about this? What even _was_ this? Enjolras had mentioned courtship, but Grantaire didn’t know how that worked between a man and a woman, let alone between her and Enjolras. Would she be expected to meet Enjolras’ family? Would the other girls in the school be told? Should Grantaire tell Feuilly?”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, interrupting Grantaire’s spiraling thoughts. “Might it be possible to keep this between us for the time being? I don’t want to rush anything.”

Courfeyrac frowned, but nodded. “Fine, I’ll leave you to tell the others, but I do so hope it will be soon! They will all want to celebrate as well.”

“Thank you, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said, smiling. “I appreciate it.”

Courfeyrac pressed kisses to both of their cheeks. “Now, we can’t be late for art! Oh, will you tell Fantine about this? She would be delighted!”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras reprimanded, but got to her feet regardless. She began to clean up their notebooks from the now-forgotten French lesson, and Courfeyrac, who wrapped her arms around Grantaire, pulled Grantaire to her feet.

“I’m so pleased,” she whispered into Grantaire’s ears. “I hope you don’t feel scared of our reactions; we all love you both, and we would never want to hurt you.”

Grantaire just smiled into Courfeyrac’s shoulder. In the back of her mind, she knew that, but it was nice to have it confirmed.

“Now!” Courfeyrac clapped her hands and began to walk towards the door. “Shall we try to convince Fantine to do a lesson on the nude throughout history? I have a feeling it would appeal to both of you.”

Grantaire let out a loud laugh and Enjolras grumbled, the three of them making their way through the dusty halls of Prentiss with Grantaire feeling happier than she thought possible.

Over the next week, Grantaire felt like she was walking on air. She and Enjolras sat next to each other at meals, walked to class together, and talked at every opportunity. At their meetings, which were already Grantaire’s favorite part of the day, Enjolras would lean back in Grantaire’s lap and press kisses to her hands as their friends cooed over their romance. Whatever fears Grantaire had about her friends finding out were quickly dismissed; Joly and Bossuet had responded with cheers, Prouvaire and Feuilly had both pressed kisses to Grantaire’s cheeks and spoke of their support for love in all forms, and Cosette had told Grantaire how brave she thought it was. Grantaire didn’t think of it as brave, although the fear she felt in her stomach when she thought about life in London with Enjolras made her think that maybe it was a show of strength. Combeferre, of course, had already known, but she still made a point to tell Grantaire how wonderful she thought it was, and how glad she was that Grantaire had agreed. Coming from Enjolras’ best friend, it meant a lot to Grantaire.

Suffice to say the meetings were becoming even more of a safe haven than Grantaire had thought. One evening in particular, when Enjolras was wearing her masculine outfit and had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, Grantaire was reminded of Bahorel and Eponine’s relationship.

“Enjolras!” She called out, interrupting the girl who was teaching Joly a two-step in one corner of the church. Grantaire walked over to them, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek just because she could.

“I was going to mention this a few days ago, but I was distracted,” Grantaire began.

“Yes, dear?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire was struck in the moment at how handsome she looked.

“At one of the balls this Christmas, I met these two ladies, and I think you would have liked them.”

“Oh?” Enjolras mused, her attention still half on Joly.

“One of them, Lady Bahorel the daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, reminded me of you.” Grantaire was searching for a delicate way to broach the subject; what words did one use to explain the women who loved each other and dressed as men?

“How so?” Enjolras asked, focusing on Grantaire.

Grantaire motioned to her clothing. “Well, when I met her, I saw her dancing with another woman dressed as you are now.”

Enjolras’ eyes lit up. “ _Really_? In a waistcoat and tails? At a formal ball?” She looked intrigued by the thought.

“I thought she was a man at first, in fact. She was dancing with this woman, Lady Eponine, who is apparently her…partner? I’m not sure of the term.”

Enjolras smiled, and put a hand around Grantaire’s waist and taking her left hand, pulling her into a simple waltz. “They were lovers? These two women you met?”

“I believe so,” Grantaire added, smiling at the memory. She fell into the steady rhythm of the waltz, moving around the small church with ease. “I remember thinking, while I was with them, how lovely it would be to live like that, to be in the open with their relationship.”

Enjolras pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “It does sound lovely, to be able to walk around town with you with no one being the wiser.” She twirled Grantaire out, and held out her arm. “What do you say; would you go for a stroll with a young gentleman like me?”

Grantaire laughed and put on her most frivolous accent. “Oh, monsieur, that would be absolutely divine! We shall stroll through Regent’s Park, and no one would know of our deviant lifestyle.”

“And your family would let you spend your days with a woman who prefers trousers?” Enjolras asked, her voice getting quiet.

That made Grantaire pause. Ever since returning from her holidays, Grantaire had not spared a single thought for her ailing father and ridiculous brother. Should she be feeling more worried? What Alphonse said, about finding a husband who could support her…how would he feel about Enjolras?

Grantaire realized they had stopped moving, and Enjolras was giving her a concerned glance.

“I’m not sure what my family would think,” she said, dropping out of her accent. “But at this stage, I’m not sure that I care?” She looked up at Enjolras with a wry smile. “You’re always the one telling us that we women make our _own_ choices, and that men should not control us; why should I care what my father says?”

That made Enjolras grin, and she pulled Grantaire into a deep hug. “Then I promise you this; when we are finished with school, I shall find us a little flat in London, and we can share with Courfeyrac and Combeferre and all the rest of them, and we will have a grand time with no men to influence us!”

Her voice grew louder, and Grantaire heard a “hear hear!” from Courfeyrac in the background.

“You know,” Cosette spoke up, as Enjolras and Grantaire walked over to where the group sat. “I think the two of you have really taken initiative in this organization. Is there anything more in line with the suffrage movement and women’s independence than swearing off men in all parts of your life? It’s rather impressive.”

“I truly wish I could swear off men, I do indeed,” Courfeyrac sighed, leaning dramatically into Combeferre’s side. “Do you think if I were to tell Duke Tholomeyes that I yearned for the touch of a woman, he would refuse to marry me out of disgust?” Courfeyrac let out a laugh and pressed her lips to Combeferre’s cheek, but Grantaire saw a frown tug at Combeferre’s lips.

“Courfeyrac,” she asked hesitantly, letting go of Enjolras’ arms and walking over to the girl in question. “How, er, how is your engagement going?”

“Well, you will be glad to know Tholomeyes has stories which go on for _hours_ about his time in the Navy, which, I always thought it would be quite the adventure to be a pirate, but if I had to meet officers like Felix I think I would throw myself into the ocean!” She laughed, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted, but Grantaire could see it was doing no use.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she said quietly, trying to give comfort. “Have you any ideas about how we might be able to solve this problem?”

This time, it was Combeferre who spoke up. “Actually, we’ve been thinking of—“

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “I truly wish to discuss _anything_ but my future as a housewife to that horrid man.” Instead, she turned to Grantaire. “What I would _much_ rather discuss, is your relationship with our dear Enjolras, and what it entails! Have you shared sweet kisses? Has she told you how ardently she admires and loves you?”

Grantaire laughed, glad for the subject change. She wanted to help Courfeyrac, but she didn’t quite know how, and it seemed that the mere discussion upset her. “Unfortunately, Enjolras is not the hero of a love story, so she hasn’t spoken to me in such terms. As for what we do in private, a lady does not tell!”

Courfeyrac gasped. “So you _have_ done something? Oh Grantaire,” she grabbed Grantaire’s arm, “you _must_ tell me all the sordid details! I will have nothing else to occupy my mind while spending dreary hours with Monsieur Felix than writing your story as a grand, romantic saga!”

That gave Grantaire pause. “He’s coming to visit again soon?”

“This Saturday, he’ll be coming to visit for tea along with my parents.” Courfeyrac’s voice was subdued.

“Do you,” Grantaire began, “would it help to have a friend there? I would be happy to waste a Saturday with you.”

“That’s kind of you,” Courfeyrac said with a smile, “but Combeferre has already offered. She has been an absolute _angel_ throughout this process.”

The girl in question blushed, and Grantaire once again found herself questioning the nature of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s relationship. Of course, Courfeyrac was rather affectionate with all of them, but there seemed to be something…softer about her interactions with Combeferre. The cheek kisses lingered, and her raucous energy would melt as soon as she was in Combeferre’s arms.

Combeferre’s hands drifted to Courfeyrac’s back, rubbing gently as the shorter girl sighed in happiness. “I doubt Felix’s hands feel like this,” Courfeyrac said, and Grantaire felt her cheeks heat up with the suggestive tone Courfeyrac used.

From what she saw of Combeferre’s blush, she was similarly affected.

“We have no time for this sentimentality,” Courfeyrac said, sitting up suddenly. “Enjolras, if we only have a few more weeks of term, I absolutely _insist_ we study more politics! I must know enough to challenge Tholomeyes and support your revolution from my sitting room!”

Enjolras laughed, but took the bait, turning to a set of writings from Emily Davies which she had procured the previous week and beginning a rousing rendition of Davies’ arguments for a woman’s education.

 

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The day of Courfeyrac’s next meeting with Tholomeyes came all too quickly, and Grantaire felt the subdued atmosphere at dinner that evening. Courfeyrac sat huddled between Combeferre and Joly, and Enjolras sat across from them, tapping her foot under the table.

Grantaire took her seat next to Enjolras, and murmured under her breath. “It must be difficult to see your best friends so sad.” The plural was significant; the more Grantaire looked at Combeferre, the more she noticed that she was nearly as distraught as Courfeyrac at times. There were circles under her eyes, and Grantaire wondered if either girl was getting much sleep.

Instead of responding to Grantaire’s statement, Enjolras simply huffed a breath and turned her attention to Courfeyrac.

“Can we at least discuss this?” She implored.

“Discuss what?” Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac shook her head. “I know what you think, Enjolras, and I don’t want to hear your protestations anymore.”

“But you must admit,” Enjolras continued, as if she hadn’t heard Grantaire, “we haven’t considered all the consequences, and it might not—“

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac broke in, brow furrowed. “This is _my_ decision, and I don’t appreciate your attempts to _control_ my future. You’re as bad as my parents.”

Enjolras’ mouth dropped open, and silence fell across the table. Courfeyrac stood up, taking Combeferre’s hand in hers, and rushed out of the room before anyone could think to respond.

“Now what was that all about?” Cosette asked, from her seat next to Joly.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, putting her hand on Enjolras’ arm.

“I have to go apologize,” Enjolras said without feeling, standing up and hastening towards the door. Grantaire stood to follow her; still curious about what had caused this event.

Once they had made their way into the corridor, Enjolras walking briskly up the staircase towards the room she shared with Combeferre, Grantaire cleared her throat and grabbed Enjolras’ hand, pulling her to a stop.

“Enjolras,” she said, forcing the taller girl to make eye contact. “What on _earth_ is going on?”

“I can’t…” Enjolras began, trailing off. “I can’t explain, only that I fear Courfeyrac is about to make a drastic decision she hasn’t prepared for.”

“Does this have to do with her engagement?” Grantaire asked as they continued their walk.

“To an extent,” was Enjolras’ only answer.

By the time they reached Combeferre’s room, Enjolras was gripping Grantaire’s hand so tightly Grantaire felt as if she were trying to combine them into one. Enjolras pushed open the door to see Courfeyrac pacing across the small room while Combeferre sat on a bench beneath the window.

“Now what was that all about,” Enjolras began, frowning at Courfeyrac.

“Oh, don’t start with me,” Courfeyrac scoffed as she walked, “I don’t desire your opinion, Enjolras. You are here to tell me that the unknown is less frightening than the known eternity of marriage to Tholomeyes?”

“You know I did not mean that,” Enjolras tried to say, but Courfeyrac cut her off.

“I assumed that you of all people, that you would support me in this!” Courfeyrac cried, and Grantaire noticed the tears which were in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she broke in, “could someone please explain what all of this is about?”

Enjolras was silent, Courfeyrac fumed, but eventually Combeferre spoke up.

“Courfeyrac and I, we’ve been trying to come up with alternatives so she wouldn’t need to marry that man. A few days ago, I brought up—in jest, I should say—that were we adventurers of old, we could commandeer a navy vessel and sail to the Americas.” Combeferre took a deep breath. “And then, Courfeyrac remembered, that _I_ happen to have a brother who lives in New York, and it was no longer fantasy but a tangible goal.”

Grantaire felt her heart thud. “You would…just leave? To New York?”

“Even six months at sea would be preferable to a marriage!” Courfeyrac argued.

“I don’t doubt your passion, nor your reasoning,” Enjolras bit out. “But, Courfeyrac, the logistics of the matter are seemingly impossible! How would you get to London, where does one book passage on a steamer for America, how would your brother even know you were there?”

“Wait,” Grantaire interrupted again. “You’re leaving? Both of you?” Her voice broke on the last word, and she couldn’t help it; two of the loveliest people she’d met, and now she might never see them again.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras implored, turning to her friend. “Can’t you see my argument? It’s not that I don’t support this plan, but—“

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac broke in, preventing Combeferre from responding. “If I stay here, if I have to marry Tholomeyes, I will die. I know you don’t like histrionics, but I’m serious. I don’t think I could survive marriage to that man; wouldn’t you rather I survive, even if it was across the sea?”

Grantaire saw Courfeyrac’s hands shake, but her voice was strong. After a moment, Enjolras relented, and pulled her friend into a strong hug.

“Of course,” Enjolras said softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“Me too,” Grantaire piped up, walking over and putting her arm around Courfeyrac. Combeferre joined them, and the three girls huddled around Courfeyrac, as if they alone could protect her from the world.

Eventually, Enjolras broke the hug, taking Grantaire’s hand and stepping away. “We’ll leave you two, but let us know how we can be of assistance. I love you both.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre echoed her sentiments, and Grantaire followed Enjolras out of the room. Before she could speak up, though, Enjolras pulled her along until they reached the library, practically dragging Grantaire back to their corner.

“Enjolras, what—“ Grantaire began, but she was quickly silenced as Enjolras turned around and Grantaire saw tears streaming down her face. “Oh no,” she whispered, pulling Enjolras into a hug and resting her forehead on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras cried softly for a few minutes, and Grantaire lowered them down into the chair with Enjolras sitting on her lap, arms still wrapped around her shoulders.

“I’m happy for them,” Enjolras eventually sniffed, “but…am I allowed to be upset that my two best friends are leaving me?”

Grantaire pressed her head against Enjolras’ shoulder. “Of course you are. It’s difficult to wrap my head around; Courfeyrac and Combeferre, I can’t imagine a future without them there.”

“We’ve been friends since our childhood,” Enjolras continued, lost in her memories. “All of our time at Prentiss was spent together, and I assumed that whatever our future held, at least we would stay in contact.”

“But you can send letters and telegrams, right?” Grantaire couldn’t figure out how to cheer Enjolras up.

“I suppose,” Enjolras mused, “but all the way across the ocean? How do you maintain that love, if it is so far away?”

Grantaire tried to imagine how she would feel if Enjolras moved away, if she moved halfway around the world. “There must be an element of strength, and the knowledge that your bond with that person will never go away. Even if you only speak in letters, even if you don’t see them for ten years, you are still in each other’s hearts?”

Enjolras’ arms tightened around Grantaire, pressing the two girls closer together. “I hope you never leave me,” Enjolras whispered into her ear. “I don’t think I could stand it.”

“I promise,” Grantaire murmured, “I’ll never leave unless you ask.” She pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. “And we’re going to figure this out; you won’t be alone.”

 

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As Enjolras told Grantaire, no one else in their group was to know of the plan. Over the next few weeks, as details were discussed, everyone assumed that Courfeyrac was sad about her impending marriage, and forgave Enjolras for her reactions. Life at Prentiss continued as usual, Fantine’s classes continued to enlighten, Le Gros continued to irritate; Grantaire, however, found she could barely concentrate in class. She was so focused on Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s daring escape that it felt like she was barely attending school at all.

Whispered conversations in the chapel during meetings, or in Combeferre’s room after everyone had gone to bed gave Enjolras and her friends a chance to organize. The plan was set for an evening in May, when all of the upper-level girls were being taken into London to see an opera; Instead of returning with the group to Prentiss, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would leave during intermission and make their way across the city to find a hotel to spend the night in before seeking passage on a ship in the morning. With the money both girls had saved, they would have enough to buy tickets in second or third class; Enjolras offered to give them her savings as well, so they wouldn’t have to spend the journey in the steerage, but both declined.

Far too soon for Grantaire’s taste, the day of the opera arrived. At breakfast, Cosette and Prouvaire were discussing their outfits, Joly was telling Feuilly and Bossuet about the libretto the opera was based on (“You don’t understand, Feuilly, there are so many references to Masonic imagery, and it’s simply ignorant to think that neither Mozart nor Schikaneder weren’t cognizant of that!”), but next to Grantaire, Courfeyrac and Combeferre were silent. Courfeyrac stirred her porridge listlessly, Combeferre softly rubbing her back, and Enjolras impatiently tapped her feet beneath the table.

“Are you sure this will—“ she began, only to have Combeferre cut her off.

“Enjolras, we’ve gone through every possibility, and I don’t think there’s any point continuing to stress about the details.”

Enjolras relented, but Grantaire watched as the girl barely touched her breakfast. When they were dismissed to get ready for the days events, Grantaire tried to speak to Enjolras again but the girl ignored her, choosing instead to walk with Courfeyrac back to her room.

Grantaire watched as they walked away, wondering if Enjolras would be this recalcitrant for as long as she was upset about Courfeyrac’s future.

“Don’t take it personally,” Combeferre said, falling in step with Grantaire. “Enjolras isn’t used to sharing her emotions, and I don’t doubt that she can’t truly figure out how to best support Courfeyrac and I. It’s not that she’s upset with you, she just doesn’t like the situation we’ve found ourselves in.”

“Does anyone?” Grantaire muttered. She looked down, and took Combeferre’s hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “Combeferre, I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to become as close as I feel Enjolras would have liked. I’ll miss you terribly.”

“I appreciate that,” Combeferre said with a smile. “You’re good for her, for Enjolras. I may not know what the future holds, but as long as you are by her side, I don’t doubt Enjolras will do great things.”

Grantaire said goodbye to Combeferre as she walked back towards her room, mulling over Combeferre’s words. When she walked in Feuilly had a grave look on her face.

“Grantaire,” she said, looking like a vision in her blue gown, “is something wrong? You and Enjolras, you’ve been out of sorts these past few weeks.”

Grantaire didn’t know if she could respond without crying, so she just walked over to her armoire and pulled out her nicest dress for the evening, covered in green satin and gold thread. It had been a gift from her mother on her sixteenth birthday, and Grantaire was hit with a longing for the ease of her life a mere two years ago. But, of course, two years ago she hadn’t met Feuilly or Joly, hadn’t found her friends, and hadn’t fallen in love with Enjolras.

Grantaire wiped a tear from her eye as she began to undress. She thought her mother would have loved Enjolras.

“Grantaire, are you sure you’re alright?” Feuilly broke in, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire mumbled, “I’m thinking about my mother.” At least that was partially true.

“Oh, of course,” Feuilly murmured. “It must be difficult, to be here without her. I’m sure she would be proud of you.”

“Thank you, Feuilly,” Grantaire said, feeling choked up. “I wish she’d had a chance to meet you. You would have loved her.”

Feuilly picked up a hairbrush from the table, and began to brush through Grantaire’s curls. “Tell me about her?”

Realizing it would be a better distraction than wallowing in her sadness, Grantaire smiled. “She always smelled of incense. It’s odd, because I never saw it burning in our house, but it was as if she walked around in a cloud of smoke. And her hair, why, it was longer than mine, reaching past her waist. She would pile it on top of her head with little pins, and then every evening when I was younger she would let it fall down and teach me how to braid it before bed.”

“She sounds beautiful,” Feuilly commented.

“Indeed, she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” Grantaire could feel her hands on the back of her neck, murmuring traditional melodies in Hindi as she ran her fingers through her hair. “And she was so _smart_ , she’d read all of these books, nearly as many as Enjolras, I’d reckon. She would tell me stories of traveling, and of adventurers from the classics, and I thought one day we would visit the places in the stories together.”

“Enjolras would have liked her?”

Grantaire blushed slightly, and Feuilly gave her a wide smile. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” She asked.

“I’m not sure how to discuss it,” Grantaire said awkwardly. What words did one use?

“Are you two lovers?” Feuilly asked bluntly.

“Feuilly!” Grantaire cried, as Feuilly pulled her hair into a particularly tight bun.

“Well?” Feuilly prompted.

“We haven’t discussed it,” Grantaire said awkwardly. “I mean, I feel as if I love her, and were she a man I would want to begin a courtship with her, but as two women, I’m not sure if that’s the proper term.”

“I have no doubt you will become lovers eventually, then,” Feuilly said with confidence.

“I do think my mother would have liked her,” Grantaire continued, thinking of explaining her relationship to her mother. She had no doubt her mother would have a better reaction than someone like Alphonse. “And I believe Enjolras would adore my mother, certainly because of her opinions on politics.”

Feuilly walked around and pulled Grantaire to her feet, a wide smile on her face. “See? You’re already feeling better. Now why don’t you go find that young lady of yours, she probably misses you as well.”

“Feuilly,” Grantaire breathed, kissing her quickly on the cheek as she looked at her hair in the mirror. “Where would I be without you!”

With a final smile, Grantaire took off down the hallway, feeling restricted in her corset and layers of petticoats and skirts. She felt beautiful, not in the least because of Feuilly’s styling, but she was reminded of Enjolras’ crusade against the corset, and how right she had been.

“I hope this is the last time I’ll ever be forced into this contraption,” she muttered to herself as she approached Enjolras’ room.

“I couldn’t agree more!” Courfeyrac said, smiling broadly as she saw Grantaire. “Oh, but don’t you look _lovely_.”

“As do you, my friend,” Grantaire replied, taking in Courfeyrac’s chiffon pink gown which only made her look more romantic.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called out, pulling Grantaire into the room, “tell your lover how beautiful she is tonight.”

Grantaire turned to Enjolras, beginning to protest Courfeyrac’s use of the word ‘lover,’ when she saw Enjolras in a deep maroon gown with black lace around her collar, her wispy blonde hair drawn up in an elaborate design which made her look all the more ethereal. After months of seeing her in trousers and dresses without corsets, Grantaire was reminded of her first thought of seeing Enjolras, back before she even knew her name: angelic.

“You, I—“ Grantaire stuttered, as Enjolras walked towards her. “I had half a thought that you might wear a suit this evening.”

That caused Enjolras to frown, although she pressed a soft kiss onto Grantaire’s lips, so Grantaire knew it wasn’t due to her comment.

“The headmistress expressly forbade me from wearing anything but a dress,” Enjolras muttered as Courfeyrac laughed in the background. “She seemed to think I have a penchant for causing trouble, although I don’t see what could be more troublesome than these damn petticoats!” She reached down, ruffling them as if she could make them sit more comfortably over her bustle.

“I don’t think Grantaire is complaining about your outfit, darling,” Combeferre said with a laugh.

Enjolras finally looked back up at Grantaire and grinned. “You like it?”

Grantaire couldn’t do anything but nod, and she felt her face heat up once more. “I, uh, you look, incredible.”

Enjolras hummed in amusement, and her hands drifted across Grantaire’s waist. “I could say the same to you.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt this moment,” Courfeyrac said, “but we _really_ must be going, or else all of the carriages will be gone!”

They all rushed down the stairs, and Grantaire was swept up in a sea of chiffon and silk; the normally uniformed girls had exploded in a variety of colors, from Bossuet’s deep purple gown to Cosette’s soft blue dress. There was a palpable excitement in the air, and Grantaire kept her hand in Enjolras’ as they made their way out to where a line of carriages were waiting, horses restless in the heat. Grantaire made sure she followed Enjolras into a carriage, but they were separated from Combeferre and Courfeyrac and ended up across from Cosette and Feuilly, both of whom were practically bouncing with excitement. Compared to the past few days of anger and sadness, Grantaire couldn’t help but appreciate their mood.

“Aren’t you thrilled, Feuilly?” Cosette asked brightly. “I’ve never been to the opera before. Papa has said he would take me, but he’s often away on business and we’ve never made the time. But now! To experience the Royal Opera House dressed as royalty!”

Feuilly nodded, running her hands across the blue gown Grantaire had given to her again. “Oh, I can’t wait for the music. I’ve always appreciated Mozart, but this opera is so well known, to hear it for myself will be a dream come true!”

The two continued to discuss the merits of the opera versus attending a ballet, and what surprised London society might have in store, while Enjolras sat silently next to Grantaire, resting her head on the shorter girls’ shoulder.

“Are you ready?” Enjolras eventually whispered into Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire shook her head. “No, but I don’t think we have a choice at this point, do we?”

Enjolras lifted their hands, still tightly held together, and pressed her lips softly to them. “Everything will work out, I promise.”

Grantaire was about to respond, to ask Enjolras when she had started taking such an optimistic viewpoint, but Cosette interrupted her.

“Grantaire,” Cosette began, “what do you think is the chance of Baron Pontmercy being at this opera? I know it is a fashionable evening, but he probably has other events to attend, right?”

“Oh, I think your odds are rather good,” Grantaire mused, not really focused on the conversation. “He asked after you at Christmas, did I mention?”

Cosette shrieked, and Grantaire realized she did _not_ mention this. Apparently she had been too distracted with Enjolras.

“He did?” Cosette gushed, nearly swooning. “Oh, Enjolras, you haven’t met him! He was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and Feuilly said he was so _smart_ as well!”

“Have you spoken to him?” Enjolras asked shrewdly.

“Well, no,” Cosette blushed. “Our eyes met during Assembly Day last term, but I haven’t stopped dreaming of him since!”

“Then you do you know you care for him? It’s impossible to tell you care for someone before hearing them speak.”

“Are you sure about that?” Grantaire asked, unthinking. She realized her mistake as Enjolras turned to look at her.

“What do you mean by that?” Enjolras pressed.

“Oh, nothing.” Grantaire felt a blush rising on her cheeks. “I just, I remember seeing you the first evening I came to Prentiss, and thinking you were the most beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on. I’m not sure if it was true love, but I know I felt something.”

Enjolras had a thoughtful look on her face, and Grantaire saw Cosette and Feuilly grinning at them.

“I suppose you’re right,” Enjolras conceded, and Grantaire’s mouth fell open. “What?” Enjolras questioned. “I remember that evening as well, and I admit that I felt something when I saw you.”

“Wait, you noticed me?” Grantaire couldn’t believe her ears.

“Well of course I did,” Enjolras said as if it were obvious. “You were…intriguing.”

“You mean I looked different.”

“No, I mean you looked curious. Out of place.” Enjolras frowned, obviously annoyed at her inability to describe that night. “You looked as if you didn’t belong in a stuffy boarding school, as if you were made for adventures and a life outside of London society. I remember seeing you and being…interested in your story. What had brought you to Prentiss, why your eyes looked so shrewd.”

Grantaire smiled. Enjolras was not one for emotions, Combeferre had told her that, but there was something charming about Enjolras’ attempt to rationalize her reaction to Grantaire.

Apparently, Cosette agreed. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she breathed out. “Oh, you _must_ tell me the story of your first kiss. I think it will be the most romantic thing, something out of a fairy tale.”

Grantaire laughed, but relented, dramatizing that evening in the library as Cosette and Feuilly played the part of the audience, gasping and murmuring at all the right moments. Enjolras sat in silence, but Grantaire felt her lips press her cheek every so often, as if it were a reminder that Enjolras was still there, and still loved her.

 

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Far too soon, the carriages were no longer rolling through the countryside but were on the uneven cobblestones of London. As they approached the Opera House, Enjolras dropped Grantaire’s hand and smoothed her skirt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking guilty. “I just don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Grantaire understood, and she couldn’t begrudge Enjolras’ hesitancy. And, this night wasn’t about them; they needed to keep the evening moving, to give Courfeyrac and Combeferre their opportunity for a daring escape.

They emerged from the coaches, meeting up with the headmistress and members of the faculty who began to speak about the importance of the opera, and the cultural event which would have a great impact on their lives. As Grantaire scanned the crowed, however, she saw three people who immediately lightened her spirits. Set apart from the crowed of Prentiss girls stood an olive-skinned girl in a stunning cream gown between two men, one with sandy hair hidden under his top hat and the other with long, dark waves tied back into a neat bun.

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras and Cosette by the hands, ignoring their protests. “I need to introduce you both to some people,” she said, pushing through the crowd until she was face to face with the three individuals.

“It’s you,” Marius breathed, the first to speak, as Cosette gasped and put her hands to her mouth. “My lady, not a day has passed when I did not think of you.”

“Nor I you, Monsieur,” Cosette said softly, her eyes shining.

“Might I escort you to your seat?” Marius asked, bowing low in front of her.

Cosette nodded, extending her hand for him to kiss. “It would be my honor.”

Marius took her hand, and as the two began to walk away, Cosette turned and mouthed “thank you” to Grantaire.

Grantaire simply smiled, glad that Cosette would get her fairy tale ending as well. Then, she looked at Enjolras, who was eyeing the other gentleman with interest.

“My dear,” Grantaire began, taking Enjolras’ hand in her own. “I’d like to introduce you to the Ladies Eponine and Bahorel, whom I met over the holidays. My friends, this is Enjolras.”

Eponine sank into a curtsey and Bahorel into a bow, and Grantaire watched as Enjolras’ eyes seemed to pop out of her skull.

“This is the woman you were telling me about?” She whispered into Grantaire’s ear, sinking into a curtsey herself. Grantaire nodded, looking back up at Bahorel who winked.

“Lady Enjolras,” Bahorel began, “your friend spoke to us last time we met about your interest in, shall we say, a subversive way of dressing?”

“Yes,” Enjolras began in a firm voice, “I do have an interest, but I would like to make clear: Grantaire and I are more than friends, as I assume are you and Lady Eponine?”

Bahorel chortled, pressing a kiss to Eponine’s cheek. “You thought right, my good lad!”

“If I may be so bold,” Enjolras continued, looking Bahorel up and down, “who tailored your suit? It looks divine, and I’ve only been able to wear hand-me-downs from friends.”

“Fear not, I have a tailor who is very discreet. I’ll give you his contact.” She winked, and took Eponine’s arm in her own. “Now, shall we head into the Opera? I must say, I’m not one for the theater, but Eponine is always saying we spend too much time at home, so I thought I would treat her to an evening in town. I never expected to run into such an exciting group of women!”

Grantaire grinned and followed with Enjolras next to her, marveling as they walked into the entry hall at the chandeliers and murals surrounding them. “Truly, I did not expect this evening to be so eventful,” she said, smiling at Enjolras. “But we are happy to meet you again, Bahorel, and I hope next year once Enjolras and I are no longer in school, we will see more of you?”

“Oh, that would be divine,” Eponine said. “And Enjolras, should you wish to follow in Bahorel’s slightly deviant footsteps, it would be wonderful to have another couple to do events with!” She turned to Grantaire and blew her a kiss. “And to have another lady to entertain! Living with this gentleman,” she ran her hand down Bahorel’s arm, “sometimes makes me wish for another lady who is less inclined to go sprinting through the gardens as if she were a horse.”

Grantaire and Enjolras laughed, and Grantaire thought that spending time in London with Eponine and Bahorel, playing the charade with their lovers dressed as men, would be a delightful future. For a moment, as the two couples walked up the grand staircase, Grantaire forgot the reason they were at the Opera in the first place.

It all came back to her, in a foreboding reminder, when the couples parted ways and Eponine and Bahorel made their way to the boxes for their seats.

“Hurry, we must make sure we catch Combeferre and Courfeyrac before the show begins,” Enjolras whispered as they made their way to the mezzanine.

“Oh, of course,” Grantaire murmured, all thought of her future with Enjolras forgotten. They were here to save Courfeyrac’s future; there was no time to think of her own.

Eventually, they found the rest of the girls from Prentiss. Most had huddled around the balcony, hoping for the best view of the fantastic costumes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, on the other hand, had elected to take seats near the very back of the aisle, shrouded by the low ceiling and nearly fading into the curtains themselves.

“How are you feeling?” Grantaire asked Courfeyrac as they sat down in front of the two girls.

Courfeyrac gave a sad smile, but didn’t say anything. She looked as if she was about to break down in tears at any moment, and Combeferre did not look much better.

Enjolras took a deep breath, and took one of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s hands each. “I want you to know,” she said in a low voice, “that you are two of the most important people in my life. I…I know how important this is, and I _do_ hope you find peace, Courfeyrac, but know that I will miss you as if I have lost a sister. You—“ she broke off, sniffling. “I love you both, more than words can possibly express, and I just wanted you to know that.”

By the end of her speech, all three girls were crying softly, and even Grantaire felt her eyes prickling with tears.

Before either girl could respond, the lights began to dim and applause began as the conductor walked onto the stage. Enjolras pulled Grantaire into her seat, but kept a firm grip on her hand as the overture began to play.

Grantaire tried to focus on the opera; from what she could tell, there was some sort of fantasy element, and it was all very dramatic, but her entire body was focused on Enjolras, and her mind couldn’t help but drift to the two girls sitting behind her, and their journey ahead. Grantaire wondered if they were scared, if Combeferre was worried about meeting her brother in New York. She thought about the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, about taking such a journey on a huge boat, and about how brave her friends were.

Halfway through the first act, Grantaire felt a pair of lips at her ear.

“I just wanted you to know,” Courfeyrac whispered, “I’m truly sorry about leaving you and Enjolras. I will miss you terribly, and I have grown to love you, Grantaire. You must promise me that you won’t let Enjolras wallow too much; she must learn to move on, and must begin her life and her revolutions rather than thinking about us all of the time. I implore you, help her recover.”

Grantaire nodded, feeling the tears back on her cheeks. “I will,” she croaked out. “I’ll try. I love you too.”

Courfeyrac pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s neck, pressing a hand to her shoulder.

“It’s time,” Combeferre whispered, her head between Grantaire and Enjolras’. “We must leave before intermission. Enjolras, you’ll tell the headmistress we’ve been in the powder room?”

Enjolras swallowed heavily but nodded.

“Goodbye, my loves,” Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac echoed her words.

Grantaire kept her eyes trained on the stage, and focused on Enjolras’ hand in hers. One moment, she felt Courfeyrac’s head behind hers, smelled her perfume around her, and the next there was nothing. She heard the rustling of skirts, but nothing else. Silence.

It took all of Grantaire’s effort to not turn around, to keep her focus on the stage, but she felt the tears falling out of her eyes one by one, and Enjolras was trembling beside her.

As the soprano on stage began to trill an impossibly high series of notes, Grantaire heard Enjolras take a series of shuddering breaths, and she shifted her arms so one was around Enjolras’ shoulders.

Instead of pushing her away, as Grantaire feared, Enjolras turned into her side and began to cry in earnest, her tears wetting Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire bit her lip, trying to stay calm for Enjolras. Her love was losing her two best friends, as if they were dying.

But, Grantaire reminded herself, they _weren’t_ dead, that was the point. They were escaping; Courfeyrac would no longer have to suffer through an unhappy marriage, Combeferre would be there to support her, and Grantaire could breathe knowing there was a future for them on the other side of the world. It was not a future she nor Enjolras could experience with them, but it was a start.

Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, attempting to wipe the tears off of her face. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, but she knew that the future looked bright. Courfeyrac’s escape, Bahorel and Eponine’s promise of freedom, even the possibilities for Cosette and Marius, it all made Grantaire’s heart feel a mixture of pain and hope. Now, as Grantaire comforted the girl she loved, she felt hope for what tomorrow would bring. Tomorrow would bring another day, the sun would rise, and Grantaire would still have Enjolras at her side; with her, Grantaire felt hope for what the future would bring.

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> -Yes I Know Der Holle Rache Is In Act Two Of The Magic Flute I Just Didn’t Want To Wait Out The Entire Opera.  
> -This was the longest thing ive ever written and I spent a lot of time researching rlly annoying minute details but I also skipped some stuff so sorry abt any historical inaccuracies!  
> -Combeferre’s speech is from Millicent Garrett Fawcett’s Essays and Lectures on Social and Political Subjects, p. 266  
> -Also, look up Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Emily Davies, Millicent Fawcett, and Lady Argyll! They were all really cool women who were part of the early suffrage movement in the UK prior to women like Emmeline Pankhurst (also, Millicent Fawcett’s statue was the first statue of a woman put up in Parliament Square in London!)


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